Enough Now
by Loafer
Summary: LASSIET. Carlton realizes he has to let go of his longing for Juliet, but not surprisingly, things just don't work out the way he plans. For starters, Juliet realizes she has her own longings: now if only all those longings could get together...
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** If I could make any money off of writing _psych_ stories, y'think I'd be doing it under a fake name?  
 **RATING** : Let's call it T. Sure. Why not. Because there could be smut ahead. (Who are we kidding; of _course_ there'll be smut.)  
 **SUMMARY** : Let's get this out of the way: LASSIET. Carlton decides it's time to give up the dream of Juliet, but things don't go the way he plans for either of them.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

So what happened was, this thing. This thing... happened.

And after it happened, not that he ever really thought anything would change because of it, nothing _else_ happened.

(What he had _hoped_ for was irrelevant; hope was always irrelevant in his case.)

Except after a few weeks, he realized that not only was nothing going to happen, nothing was _ever_ going to happen—not that it was ever going to happen in the first place—and further, the only person being made miserable because of it was him, and the only person who could move him out of that state of misery was, damn it all, _him_.

It was a rolling sort of epiphany, and the last piece of it had to do with a remote control falling under the coffee table and out of his reach at a time when he was too tired and too lazy and too blah to get up and fetch it.

Which was how he ended up watching _Love Actually_.

Which, _actually_ , was pretty good, and pretty funny, and pretty charming, and when Mark went to Juliet (of _course_ , Juliet) and silently confessed his feelings—not with expectation of reciprocation, but simply because he knew he _had_ to tell her before he could move on—and then stood in the street after she kissed him and told himself "Enough. Enough now," it was the last piece Carlton needed to complete the epiphany.

Enough.

Enough now.

He had to give up this pointless, unattainable dream _and move on_.

There would be no confession, no standing in the street, no brief kiss before the love of his life went back to her man. Lying on the sofa talking to himself was good enough. It was time to look outside the cage he'd put himself in.

It was time… to go out and _find_ someone.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet left Shawn slowly. At first she didn't know she was doing it.

But one night after he came to bed she felt so… wrong about him being there beside her that she got up and went into the living room, curling up on the overstuffed chair under an afghan and immediately feeling so much more settled that she slept dreamlessly until dawn.

She couldn't have explained it to him, and it was best not to try. But after a few weeks, she never slept all night in the same space as Shawn.

He always stayed up later—there was TV to watch, or he'd be doing something with Gus—so sometimes she would start out in the bed and move to the chair after he joined her, and sometimes she started out in the chair and stayed there until morning. Since she left the house every day hours before he stirred, it took him a while to notice her new routine.

Still, after a week he asked her what was up and she told him she was having trouble staying asleep, which was true, and the chair worked for her. He suggested moving it into the bedroom—he even suggested sharing it with her, _nudge nudge wink wink_. She assured him it was just a phase and he shouldn't worry about it. Work stress, maybe. Seasonal changes. She didn't know, _but don't worry about it_.

Even on those rare occasions when he talked her into sex, she never stayed with him after. He'd fall asleep quickly and she couldn't get out of bed fast enough.

Gradually, it began to be easy, these little white lies and evasions. Probably not as easy as it was for him to lie to her every day about every single thing, but as long as there was some element of truth in her words, she could live with the deception.

She _had_ to live with it, if she was going to continue to live with _him_.

Her police work legitimately took up a lot of time, and after hours, Shawn was often with Gus. She found more and more excuses not to join them on their evening entertainment quests, and after a month, realized that between her job ( _Carlton_ ) and the overstuffed chair, she really spent very little time with her live-in boyfriend at all.

In addition, their recent casework had not required the hiring of Psych, although Shawn and Gus still came around regularly and turned up at crime scenes uninvited. But she took Carlton's cue—sometimes before he gave it—and got better at side-lining them. She started being Carlton's partner again: working _with_ him rather than unintentionally against him.

In many ways, she felt better about most every aspect of her life these days except that she still shared the house with Shawn.

But she started looking at apartment ads on her breaks.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .  
**

Carlton had a date.

Her name was Emily Adkins, she was 38, she was conservative and liked the shooting range. That's where he met her; he was on his way in on Saturday afternoon and bumped into her coming out, but she didn't snarl at him and in fact _smiled_ enough that—remembering his epiphany—he asked if she wanted to have an early dinner, and she said yes.

And it was a nice dinner. He didn't feel as if he'd creeped her out; she said he had beautiful eyes and for once he let himself accept the compliment even though he had no control over their size or shape or color. She had rather nice eyes herself, brown and warm.

She asked if he wanted to go out again on Tuesday night and he said yes, and promised that if something came up at the police station he would let her know as soon as he could. He didn't brag about his position, and she said she'd seen him on TV and he didn't preen about that either.

For a change he was doing everything right, and it was _working_.

It's not as if she was Juliet, but she was nice and pretty and he'd enjoyed himself.

On Monday morning he felt good about things, because whether or not anything came of Tuesday night dinner with Emily, he'd already proved to himself that he was capable of keeping a seemingly normal woman's attention throughout an entire meal.

Didn't mean he didn't run her name through the system anyway (one parking ticket three years ago and listed as a passenger in a collision between a Scion and a Fit which led to a fistfight between vegetarian drivers).

Juliet came in and smiled at him. "How was your weekend?"

He glanced at her—still beautiful, _check_ (a bit tired perhaps); still not his, _check_ —and remembered he was Starting Fresh. "Surprisingly good. Yours?"

She shrugged and went to the coffee bar.

Hmmm… Spencer must have annoyed her. Which annoyed him.

 _Lassiter, this is not your problem anymore. If she_ asks _for your help or attention to her personal life, fine, but otherwise avert your eyes_.

The eyes Emily Adkins called beautiful.

Despite himself, he smiled.

Juliet came across the aisle with her mug. "What made your weekend good?"

A little whisper said _don't tell her yet. Don't jinx it._

So he deflected, by doing exactly what he'd just told himself not to do. "What made yours shrug-worthy?"

She sipped coffee and seemed to be debating how to answer, during which interval Chief Vick came out of her office and called out his name, then Juliet's. "My office, please."

Once they were seated, she gave them the specs on a series of smash-n-grabs in a neighborhood too close to a school for the school's liking, and when she asked if they wanted to involve Psych for the sake of expediency, Juliet—to Carlton's surprise—said immediately, "Let us take a look first, Chief. We may solve it a little more slowly but at least you can be assured we'll get it right the first time."

The Chief nodded, but her gaze was shrewd. Carlton knew she too had noticed that lately, Juliet had been doing this more often: dismissing the notion of hiring Spencer & Guster before they'd had a good long run at the case themselves.

It was the way it should be, of course, and certainly made the job easier, but he had to wonder what was up. Too much to hope she'd merely come back from the dark side?

She glanced at him now, and he nodded his approval as well. When she held out her hand for a fist-bump, he grinned and could not refuse, and felt like maybe his partner was coming back to him.

It'd be nice, since that's all they would ever be. Partners, with any luck good friends, and no need what-so-freaking-ever to dwell on the thing that happened which, over the course of a few minutes, ultimately changed nothing at all.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The thing that happened, weeks and weeks ago, was something partners deal with now and then. Spend a lot of time with a person of the opposite sex, get to know and be known by that person, and boundaries can blur, especially when alcohol's involved.

Juliet relived that night often, not always by choice. Sometimes she dreamed about it.

It was after the final police league softball game of the season. Their team won, and everyone was feeling fine, and there was beer and there was laughter and she could see Carlton was mellow and relaxed and looking good out of his suit and tie (although he certainly looked good in a suit and tie too), dusty and disheveled and… _dashing_.

They were parked near each other, and Shawn had gone off with Gus to pick up additional celebratory pizza on the way home. She and Carlton were the only ones walking down that particular side street, all other voices having faded away in the distance.

The night was cool and the stars were bright and he walked alongside her, his mitt dangling from his hand, and Juliet still didn't know why she did it, but she grabbed it and took off running, and he probably didn't know why he did it, but he took off after her in protest.

She felt sixteen. She felt… flirtatious. It was the beer and their high spirits. It was a level of familiarity—intimacy, even—that she felt with no one else.

He caught her arm and pulled her back but she held on to the mitt, laughing and trying to squirm free, until he—laughing too, mock-cursing her—suddenly had her pressed up against his Fusion, dominating her with his height and strength and sheer force of … Carltonness.

Yes, they were altogether too close. Juliet absorbed his heat and proximity and he stopped trying to get the mitt and started just _looking_ at her.

A nearby streetlight illuminated his crystal blue eyes but they seemed to be darkening, and Juliet simply had to know. She'd wondered many times and now she had to know, because he was _right there_ , touching her, pressed to her.

She leaned up and kissed him, full-out, no possible misinterpretation.

And he kissed her back, all fire, no brimstone, his mouth sure and willful against hers.

Her arm was around his neck and her hand stroked his chest and she loved being entwined with him. One of his hands slipped into her hair and the other cupped her ass and while the kiss grew in ferocity—because that was the word for it—it also somehow gentled. As if once the flame roared up, it was set now to burn a long, long time.

Juliet had never felt anything like that in any other kiss from any other man.

And in the next second, she remembered she was with Shawn.

Breaking free, she stepped clear of the car and stared at him, horrified to be _a cheater_ and embarrassed to have made Carlton complicit and yet wanting nothing more than to go straight back into his arms.

Carlton stared back at her, out of breath, looking ragged and oh so damned delicious, and she was an awful _awful_ person.

"Don't…" she began, close to tears. "Don't tell him."

"I _wouldn't_." He ran his hand through his hair. "Dammit, Juliet, I wouldn't."

Not _O'Hara_. That made it worse.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me," she begged, and he shook his head.

"You don't have to ask that. Just go home. This didn't happen." He bent to pick up the mitt she didn't even remember dropping, and Juliet almost ran to her Beetle, brushing back tears and wondering if he'd still be her partner come Monday.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton wondered all weekend, after it happened, whether she'd request a new partner or a transfer out.

Forgive _her_? Hell. _He_ should be asking for forgiveness. It wasn't as if he didn't know he was kissing another man's woman. It wasn't as if he resisted for even half a second once her lips touched his. It wasn't as if he wasn't already half-aroused just from pressing against her in the moments leading up to that utterly brilliant kiss.

But who in God's name could have held up under a kiss from Juliet O'Hara?

He just hoped she wasn't going to want to Talk About It, because he definitely did not want to Talk About It. Juliet could _not_ be permitted to find out just how much of his heart was hers—had been hers—for the taking.

He also hoped she'd take him at his word: _it didn't happen_. He didn't want her feeling any guilt, and he didn't want to see tears in those beautiful dark blue eyes again.

(He also hoped she hadn't gone mental and confessed to Spencer, because that… man… would blow everything sky-high. Lucinda Barry, at least, was a near-stranger to Spencer, but if he ever sussed out that Carlton Lassiter knew _exactly_ how Juliet tasted, there would be no end to the pandemonium and destruction and brouhaha he'd inflict on everyone, which would hurt Juliet professionally as well as personally, and Carlton would have to shoot Spencer right between the eyes for that.)

So his weekend was spent alternating between reliving The Kiss and doing a lot of hoping it hadn't marked the end of the best partnership and friendship he would ever have, mixed with dread about how awful it was surely going to be, because that's how things usually went for him.

Sleep, he didn't get much of. As in, what sleep?

He felt like a zombie when he got to his desk on Monday morning, but when Juliet turned up later, she brought him a venti from Starbucks.

She looked tired too (and beautiful, always so damned beautiful) but she smiled at him and he smiled back and somehow, _somehow_ , they went on as if it didn't happen.

Over the next few weeks, he began to believe she truly had put it aside.

It wasn't until movie-Mark said "Enough. Enough, now," that he realized _he_ had to truly put it aside himself.

Enter Emily Adkins.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet got through that first weekend after The Kiss by cleaning the entire house, reorganizing her closet and bookshelves, sending Shawn out repeatedly for supplies they didn't really need (and counting on him staying away too long when his ADHD kicked in), and otherwise doing everything she could to move past… the feelings. The feelings which wouldn't go away.

 _They will,_ she promised herself. _You're just kinda screwed up right now, wallowing in your guilt about kissing another man, about confusing Carlton, about risking further damage to your partnership with him, and the fact that you'd like to kiss him again (and again) is a feeling which will pass. It_ will _pass._

It didn't pass. She first slept in the big chair on Sunday night, because Friday night after The Kiss she couldn't sleep at all while lying next to Shawn, far too rattled and upset to be able to settle her mind. Then Saturday night she dreamed _such things_ about being with Carlton, such unspeakably erotic things, that she became terrified Shawn, if he woke, would somehow be able to _tell_ , which amped up her guilt and drove her to walk around the house in the dark for an hour until she could face going back into the bedroom. Sunday, she didn't even try: once Shawn came to bed, she relocated to the chair.

More than anything she wanted to preserve her relationship with Carlton. _More than anything_. She couldn't imagine a work life (any life) without him, and she would make this right somehow.

The best place to start was with coffee and a smile, and that's what she did on the first Monday morning. He accepted the coffee, smiled back, and if she went to her desk a bit unsteady from having to fight an overwhelming impulse to drop into his lap and kiss him senseless, well, it would pass.

It had to pass, right?

Weeks later, she was still telling herself it would pass.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

He didn't say anything to Juliet about Emily.

He wanted to believe it was simply to retain some measure of privacy, because anything he told her was likely to end up in Spencer's ear. He also wanted to believe it was simply to avoid being teased by anyone, no matter how good-naturedly, about having even the dimmest prospects of a love-life.

But mostly it was that he didn't want to see relief in her eyes—a quickly-hidden expression of _thank God I don't have to worry he still has ideas about_ _me_ _anymore_ **.**

Silence was golden for many reasons.

Emily was pleasant, good with a gun at the range, and moderately interested in his Civil War reenactment group. She let him kiss her at the end of their second date, and it was nice, and she smiled, and it was nice. Nice. Everything was very nice.

And if he still dreamed about Juliet, and still could not get her out of his freakin' heart, well, he'd give it time.

However, time wasn't his in this matter. When he and Emily were about six weeks into an uncomplicated quasi-relationship, with goodnight kisses the limit of their intimacy (and oddly, he was okay with that; it fit with Giving It Time and he was in no hurry), they went one Saturday afternoon to see a movie.

They were just turning away from the counter with their popcorn when he heard to his left, "Carlton?"

 _Why am I even surprised..._

He turned, as did Emily, to see a smiling and ever-golden Juliet standing there holding her own bucket of popcorn. _Damn her, does she_ have _to be so beautiful?_

"O'Hara," he said, and obviously there had to be more, and not just because he could feel Emily tensing at his side ( _interesting_ ) ( _not_ _good_ ). With feigned calm he said to Emily, "This is my partner Detective O'Hara. O'Hara, this is Emily Adkins."

Juliet gave him an odd glance, but smiled again at Emily and offered her hand. "Juliet. Sometimes I think he forgets I have a first name."

Emily mostly relaxed. "Hi. It's a cop thing, right?"

"Sort of a rule, except I've always refused to call him Lassiter. What movie are you seeing?"

 _I swear to God if we're seeing the same movie, I will fake an aneurysm right this damned minute_ **.** _I will not be on a damned date in the same damned theater as Shawn Damned Spencer while I'm alive_ **.**

" _Strangerland_ ," Emily told her. "Are you here for that?"

For a second he thought he heard the very slightest of an edge in her tone. Maybe she wasn't so relaxed after all.

" _Minions_ ," Julie admitted. "I love those little guys."

"I do too." She glanced at her watch and then at Carlton. "Should we go in?"

Definitely an edge.

Still, the women smiled at each other as they parted ways and if Spencer was on the loose, he was out of sight & hearing, just where Carlton liked him to be.

But this chance meeting, he knew full well, would come back to haunt him.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet had seen _The Minion Movie_ once already with Shawn (and of course Gus). Today she was here alone because she needed to get away from them; they'd filled the living room with a large Hot Wheels race track and were providing all the crowd noises for the imaginary competition they'd planned out.

But for most of the movie she sat with her eyes closed, feeling more than a little sick.

She'd seen Carlton's tension and knew he was afraid Shawn was nearby, and she hated that he associated her with someone who could cause him such stress.

She'd also seen a flicker in those large blue eyes which told her he wasn't even comfortable with _her_ there. Her. His partner and friend. Nothing to do with Shawn. _Her_.

She hadn't missed Emily's momentary unease at her appearance—smacked of jealousy, it did—and right now she certainly wasn't missing her _own_ unease because… because, dammit, Carlton was out on a _date_.

And it clearly wasn't a _first_ date.

And he hadn't felt he could trust her with this development in his life.

And that was _her_ fault, not his.

And more, the woman was comfortable enough in their relationship to feel possessive of him, which made Juliet hate her.

And worst of all, by far the _very_ worst of all, at this moment _that woman_ was seated close to Carlton in the dark... maybe holding his hand… maybe letting him put his arm around her… simply being with him, close and warm and together.

And _Juliet_ _wasn't_ **.**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

It took a few days for the ax to fall.

Juliet didn't say anything about the encounter on Monday at work, and Carlton was relieved; at the same time he knew she was expecting him to mention it himself.

Why the hell did he feel guilty about keeping quiet? He had a right to a personal life, and he didn't have to tell her every single thing going on in it. She sure didn't tell _him_ everything—not that he wanted to know, if it involved her boyfriend—and he understood instinctively that one reason she didn't say much was because of who that boyfriend was, and thank God for that.

 _Bah. Shut up, Lassiter. Crime to solve. Life to live. Get on it._

Wednesday, Emily called to ask if they could have coffee after work.

And he knew. He didn't know what it was going to be exactly, but he knew.

He met her a coffee shop near her home, not one of his regular haunts, and they sat at a table near the window as the colors of the sky started to reflect the onset of evening.

"I really like you," she said. "You know that, right?"

"Yes," he said heavily.

Emily looked rueful. "I'm sorry. It's just… look, I know police partnerships are intense. I understand that. But Carlton, in all the time we've dated, did you know you never once referred to your partner's gender?"

"Yes," he said heavily. It was the one dumb thing he _knew_ he'd been doing.

Her surprise at his honesty was evident. "Why?"

"Because some people get freaked out about a man and woman working together closely and I didn't know how it was going to be with you so I hedged and… then… six weeks went by."

Emily sighed. "There were several times when I asked about your partner and used the word 'he' and you didn't correct me."

Carlton rubbed his temples, so damned tired of himself. "Because I'm a paranoid idiot." He waited for her slight smile. "Emily, there's nothing between us. There never has been or will be. She has a live-in boyfriend and there's just… nothing."

 _(You think if you say it enough_ you'll _believe it too?)_

"Then why the deception? How did you think it would go when I found out?"

He felt helpless… and resigned. "I guess I thought by the time it came up you'd already trust me enough not to question it. You'd see it was no big deal."

"It's kind of a big deal." She pushed her coffee cup away. "Not that she's a woman. Not even that she's a very pretty woman, but that you felt you had to conceal it. And I'll admit, I'm a little nervous about dating a cop anyway. You have a dangerous job with long hours and…" she trailed off. "Maybe it's best to just call this off now."

Carlton looked at her, and asked himself if it even mattered as much as it should.

 _Try one more time_ , said the non-abusive voice in his head.

"If you're concerned about my longevity," he said flatly, "I can't make promises. If you're concerned about my fidelity, I _can_. I'm a man of my word, Emily, and I take relationships seriously."

"Carlton…"

Yeah, this one was a lost cause. She'd made up her mind before she even called him.

He straightened in his chair. "However, if you're just feeling skittish about all of it, there's nothing I can do either way. I apologize for concealing that my partner's a woman. It was cowardly. But everything else you've seen and heard from me is the real thing."

Emily looked unhappy now. "I'm sorry. Maybe I am just skittish. But my warning sensors are going off, Carlton, and I have to listen to them."

 _Once again_ , he asked himself, _do I even care that much? She's nice, but_ …

Yeah. Maybe "nice, but…" was one of _his_ warning sensors.

He held out his hand. "It's been…"

What? What had it been? Short? Ill-fated? Pointless? Doomed?

"It's been nice," he finished.

She accepted his hand, collected her handbag, bent to kiss his cheek, and stepped out of his life.

For a minute he sat with his coffee, twirling the cup slowly and wondering why he wasn't more upset. He was a _little_ upset, but really not as much as one might expect.

 _First time out of the barn, boy-o_. Not every race can be won.

Rather than wait for the server to appear, he went to the register to settle up. The woman who took his money had a lavender streak in her black hair and he was thinking idly that it looked surprisingly good when she said, "None of my business, but did you just get dumped?"

Carlton eyed her.

She seemed sympathetic. Also youngish and pretty and nonjudgmental.

He took the change she handed him. "Yep."

"You okay?"

He thought about it. "Yeah."

She grinned. "Not sure yet?" She had a light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Spent a lot of time outside, he figured.

He focused on the question. "Actually… yeah, I'm sure. We weren't together very long and nothing much was happening."

"So… why'd she kill it?"

Carlton moved to the end of the counter when someone else approached, not sure why he was willing to tell this inquisitive stranger anything.

She was attractive, he decided as she attended to the other customer, despite the semi-crazy hair; looked like she might be a runner. Maybe early thirties. _Stop profiling her_.

"I'm going on break," she called down to another employee, and next thing he knew, she'd led him back to his table, refilled his cup and then sat across from him with a bottle of water she pulled from her wide apron pocket.

 _Okay_. Not like he had anything else to do, and the coffee _was_ pretty good here.

"And?" she prompted.

"I failed to tell her my work partner is a woman."

"Oh. Why?"

He sighed. "Probably because I knew it was going to lead to being dumped in a coffee shop six weeks later."

She laughed. "Did she have anything to worry about with you and your partner?"

"Nope." And that was the truth. No matter his stupid-ass feelings for Juliet—feelings he _would_ conquer one day, even if it wasn't until the day he died—Emily never had anything to worry about.

"Then why did you expect the worst?"

Carlton gave her the unvarnished the truth. "It's what I do best."

Again she laughed. He didn't mind. Honestly, he was puzzling himself more and more lately.

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've seen her in here before. She comes in with a man, has a talk, makes him unhappy and then leaves by herself. I think this is her designated break-up place."

Emily hadn't said much about previous boyfriends, yet somehow he wasn't overly surprised. "You're saying I'm just the latest in a string of dumpees?"

"Seems so." She sipped her water, and damn if she wasn't smirking a little. "Best-looking one in a while, though."

Now he felt warm, but it wasn't a _bad_ sensation.

"I should tell you," she went on, "I know who you are. I've seen you on TV. Detective Lassiter, right?"

The warmth faded somewhat. "Sorry for any bad impressions. I'm told I become insufferable when a camera's pointed at me." He'd heard that from both Juliet and Karen Vick more than once, in carefully-couched terms.

"No worries. Usually I'm mesmerized by those completely _magnificent_ blue eyes."

Hmmm, warmth was back. _Skip ahead, man_. "Uh-huh. What's _your_ name?"

"Manda. Manda Crockett."

"Short for Amanda?"

"No, just Manda. My mom's form of rebellion." She stuck out her hand. "Carlton, right?"

"Yeah. _My_ mom's form of punishing me."

Manda laughed. "I like you, Carlton. If you're not on the rebound, and you're not secretly a freak, we should really get together."

Who was he to argue with that?

He was single, Emily didn't want him, Juliet had never wanted him outside of that glorious never-to-be-repeated brief encounter, and again he heard that voice in his head, not the voice of self-doubt and recriminations, but the voice of common sense.

 _Enough. Enough, now_.

So he listened to it once more.

"Manda, I might be a little tightly wound, and I admit to having an unnaturally low tolerance for squirrels, but I'm no freak. What about you?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "If I run your name through the system, what will I find?"

She wasn't in the least offended. "You'll find that about ten years ago I got popped for pot, and a couple of years before that I keyed my cheating boyfriend's car in a fit of rage."

"Ah. So you have anger issues?" Something they might have in common. _Gotta start somewhere, bud._

"No, silly, because I took up pot."

He gave her his best steely look and she only laughed again.

"I'm kidding. I was just a stupid college kid with a broken heart. Got better, grew up, moved on."

"Learned how to make good coffee too." He drank more of it. "When's your next night off?"

Her smile was broad and enticing. "Friday. Got a pen? I'll give you my number."

Enter Manda Crockett.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet had waited all week to see if Carlton would mention Emily to her. She was proud of herself for not caving and asking, but in truth it wasn't about respecting his privacy as much as it was about not being sure she could keep the jealousy out of her tone.

Jealousy she had no right to feel, and jealousy he was in no way obligated to care about.

She lived with a man in what _appeared_ to be a committed relationship, she'd asked Carlton to keep private their indiscretion—an indiscretion _she'd_ initiated—and he was honoring that because he was her friend and partner, so by God if he was dating someone now it was none of her business and the least she could do for him was butt the hell out.

But damn, she wanted to know. She wanted to know _everything_ about the kind of woman he'd gone after. The kind of woman who was stealing her Carlton from her.

(She'd gone so far as to check the woman's priors. Boring.)

 _You are ridiculous and stupid and selfish._

 _Yeah? So?_

On Saturday afternoon she carried two bags of groceries in from the car, ready to make chili and cornbread and generally take comfort from food. When she'd left, Shawn and Gus were lolling on the floor still playing with the Hot Wheels and promising to have it all put away by the time she got back.

Setting the bags on the counter, she peered into the living room and saw to her relief that the track was gone.

But… so was her overstuffed chair.

Her refuge.

Panic rushed up inside her: what had they done with her chair?

A voice shoved through the panic, then another.

Them. They were arguing.

She followed the sound and found them in the hall outside the master bedroom door.

Shawn was sprawled in the chair, which occupied the entire width of the hall, and Gus was standing, hands on his hips, as they argued about what seemed to be old Ronco and K-Tel TV commercials.

"Why is my chair in the hall?" she demanded.

Shawn stood up. "Sorry, Jules. We wanted to get this done before you got back."

"Get what done? Why did you move it?"

"It's time to put it in the bedroom, sweetie. If you're going to get any sleep at night and you need the chair, it should be in the bedroom."

Gus looked uncomfortable. "He said you wanted this."

"He says a _lot_ of things, Gus."

"You know that's right," he mumbled.

"I'm right here, guys, and yes I do say a lot of things, but almost every word is pure gold and my biographer is going to be hard pressed to get my life and wisdom down to just three volumes."

Juliet took a breath. "Shawn, the chair is fine in the living room. I told you before I didn't want to move it."

"You should check into a sleep study," Gus suggested.

"I don't need a sleep study. I need my chair in the living room."

"Jules, honey," Shawn interrupted. "Sweetie. Seriously. The chair will fit perfectly in the corner by the window, and it'll free up a permanent space in the living room for the Hot Wheels track—admittedly on a smaller scale than we envisioned, but we can make the sacrifice for your health."

Gus nodded.

"Plus we'll be together at night again. We just have to figure out a way to get it through the door."

 _For my health_ , she thought. _Right_.

Sleeping in the chair—and sometimes on the sofa, but he hadn't noticed that yet—had stopped being about having kissed another man.

Because sleeping in the chair was no longer about her guilt.

It was about no longer wanting to be with Shawn.

A chill took up residence along her spine.

"Shawn, please put the chair back in the living room. If you _have_ to have the Hot Wheels track set up, take over the dining room. We don't use it anyway." And it wasn't as if they'd be having a dinner party any time soon. Or ever.

He waffled; she could see it.

Gus must have judged her tone to be Quite Serious. "Shawn, let's put the chair back."

He didn't like to give up his master plans, but obviously the promise of a guaranteed larger space for his toys was too tempting to resist. "Fine," he huffed. "But only because you twisted my arm."

Juliet looked past him. "And because you were never getting it through that door anyway." It had been hellacious trying to get it into the house to begin with.

He didn't bother to argue. "Why are you standing there, Burton? Start pushing!"

She returned to the kitchen, unnerved by how… _unnerved_ she'd felt at the idea of sleeping in the same room as him again.

 _This has_ nothing _to do with kissing Carlton anymore._

 _This is all about your current relationship._

 _And now that you_ get _that, you just have to figure out how to tell_ Shawn _it's over._

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton read the text from Manda and didn't know whether to be pleased or alarmed.

It said: _Hope I didn't scare you off. You're way too hot for me to give up too soon. :-)_

Last night for their first date, she'd suggested they go to an open-air concert down by the beach, and in the spirit of Keeping An Open Mind, combined with the mix of musical styles and audience ages, he'd felt moderately comfortable until she scooched over closer on the beach blanket and put her hand on his thigh.

Then he'd felt both _uncomfortable_ … and aroused.

 _Too fast. Moving on is one thing, but this is too fast._

But then she nuzzled his ear, and for a bit he forgot he was in a very public place.

She kissed very well, Manda did, and she smelled nice and felt quite sexy moving up against him.

He kissed her back and that seemed to be all the cue she needed; she straddled him and almost had him flat on his back before he remembered they were surrounded by hundreds of other people and this was not his thing, no it wasn't; he preferred privacy for his intimate endeavors no matter how very _very_ well she kissed.

Next to him, people were snickering. Someone else whispered _quick, get that on camera_.

Disentangling from her immediately—but with difficulty because she was still kissing him—he somehow got her off his lap and over to her side of the blanket.

There were sounds of disappointment from around him.

Manda snuggled close. "Sorry about that. I just couldn't wait to find out how you kissed."

"I think _everyone_ knows now," he muttered, and she laughed. "For the record, since we don't know each other, and also because it's against the law, I don't do public."

She made a little moue of regret. "Noted. My apologies, Detective. Was it too awful, though?"

Carlton couldn't help but grin. "Technique and delivery? A-plus."

Still, he had to remove her hand from his thigh more than once.

He reread the text now and answered her: _I don't scare easily_.

 _So you'll see me again_. No question mark.

 _I hope I will._

 _I'm free tomorrow night._

 _No you're not._

She sent back a smiley and they set up their next date: dinner Sunday night at seven, in a bistro near the boardwalk.

It would be fine, he thought. Manda had the message now: he was a slow-moving guy when it came to beginning a relationship.

Slow was good. It was necessary to build real, lasting connections.

 _(Like the one you have with Juliet.)_

He'd been noticing Juliet at the station recently. Noticing how she continued to resist working with Psych, how she often seemed tired but on the other hand seemed more in sync with him than ever when it came to their investigations.

She could finish his sentences sometimes, and it worked the other way too. Many was the time when one of them would be startled by the other completing of a half-expressed thought, and he didn't know how she felt about it, but he thought it was pretty damned cool.

 _Imagine if we were this in sync_ and _a couple_ , he couldn't help thinking, but Mr. Enough Now stomped on him immediately. _You're not, so shut up, and get on with dating Manda_.

Sunday's meal was pleasant—Manda was quite witty and kept him laughing—and by nine Carlton was in her apartment, drinking wine and flirting and feeling confident this might be going somewhere.

He was still feeling mellow about his prospects when she hoisted herself up on her kitchen table and drew him in closer by his belt buckle. He was nuzzling her throat when she murmured something about having forgotten to put on any underwear before dinner.

She hoped he didn't mind.

While he was debating the permutations of "going somewhere," Manda put her hand directly over his crotch.

Carlton the slow-moving guy was quickly dispatched by Carlton the hasn't-had-any-in-a-long-time-and- _damn_ -that-feels-good guy and that's how he ended up naked in her bed.

She seemed to enjoy it, and certainly _he_ did.

So much for slow-moving, he thought later as he stared up at her ceiling.

Manda was an energetic creature. Very intense in how she approached love-making, vocal about her needs as well as her appreciation of having them met.

But he didn't _know_ her, and this was unsettling.

Carlton liked advance knowledge. He liked knowing what he was up against. It was useful in his police work, particularly in defusing volatile situations and eliciting confessions: _the more you know going in, the more you come out with when it's over_.

Every time he moved too quickly where a woman was concerned, he regretted it. Screw up in haste, repent at leisure. The name _Ursula Gibbs_ popped into his head, and he banished it as fast as he could.

Manda stirred, curling up next to him; her soft, warm flesh tantalizing.

Six weeks of hand-holding and minor make-outs with Emily and when she dumped him he was okay; two dates with Manda and he'd been aggressively boinked… but was having regrets?

 _You're an idiot. Hello? Naked sex kitten just availed herself of your naked resources—twice—and you're questioning why you're here?_

 _What kind of red-blooded male_ are _you?_

Carlton sighed.

One with an overly-developed sense of what was right for him. _Dammit_.

One who'd entered into this phase of his life not to find a sex partner but to find… a _partner_. Someone to share _himself_ with, not just a bed.

Someone who could, if not come out ahead compared to Juliet, could at least come out ahead compared to being alone and unloved for the rest of his life.

Because he really, really didn't want to be that guy. He wanted to be the guy who had a companion, a lover, a friend—a wife, and maybe the mother of his children. It couldn't be Juliet, but that didn't mean he couldn't make it work with someone else.

Well, come the light of day he'd find out whether Manda was willing to stay the course and actually get to know him without nudity being involved.

At least for a little while.

After all, he _was_ a red-blooded male, and she looked _extremely_ good naked.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet watched Carlton from across the room. She liked to look at him; she could admit that to herself. His lean frame, his black and silver hair, the glimpses of his chest hair and of course his crystal blue eyes. His long-fingered hands were as expressive as his eyes, and even the way he strode down a hall could sometimes set her imagination aflame.

Was there an answer for her?

Perhaps. She would be single again soon. She would give herself time to be truly free of Shawn, and then she would… what?

Nothing. Because Carlton had Emily now.

But these past two days Carlton seemed… something was different. He had something on his mind and it wasn't any case they were working on. She wanted to ask him, but what if it was something horrible like deciding whether or not to propose to his girlfriend?

 _Don't be silly. You know he can't have been with this woman more_ _than_ … she did the calculations… _two months. You know he was completely unattached the night you… the night you stuck your tongue down his throat and rubbed yourself against him and wanted him naked up against his car_.

Well. Yes. So he probably _wasn't_ about to propose to Emily. But something was off. Maybe they'd broken up?

 _Stop smirking. It's unkind of you._

 _You could ask him. You are_ friends _, right?_

Juliet told herself sternly to stop ogling her partner and start doing her job.

The admonishment hadn't worked in quite a while, but maybe this time…?

To her left, he stretched, which drew her attention back to his chest (that tantalizing glimpse of fur) and arms.

Sooo… no. Didn't work this time either.

Eventually Tuesday was over, and she went to the house she shared with Shawn.

 _Home, sure. Whatever._

He and Gus were still working on the perfect setup of the Hot Wheels track, and she didn't mind: if he was busy with a toy, he wasn't in her space.

Stirring soup in a pot, a choice she made largely because she knew Shawn wasn't keen on soup (couldn't eat it with his hands and she wouldn't let him use a straw) and would probably go out with Gus to get something he liked more, she thought again about her life and how things had turned out and where they were going.

From the dining room, she heard their voices, arguing, laughing, rising and falling in intensity, amusement to annoyance to outright bickering. They were so in sync with each other. So perfectly attuned, despite their huge differences.

She'd never had that with him. Only Carlton.

 _Stop thinking about Carlton. Carlton is irrelevant here._

But that left her only one other thing to think about, something she'd been putting off thinking about, and if she was completely honest with herself, there wasn't even that much left to think _about_ it.

 _Enough, Juliet. Enough._

Juliet nodded to no one, ate her soup, washed and put away the dishes, and went to the bedroom to pack a few small bags. After she'd loaded them into the car—not even sure where she was going—she returned to the house and stood in the dining room doorway.

"Shawn, could you come talk to me for a minute?"

She had to wait for it to register.

Gus thwacked him on the arm to get his attention. "Juliet wants you."

 _No, she doesn't_ , Juliet thought sadly.

Shawn looked up expectantly from underneath the table, which they'd left in place to provide a Most Excellent Cliff for their track. "'Sup?"

"In the kitchen?"

"What is?"

"Shawn, she wants you to go to the kitchen with her."

"I took out the trash!" he protested.

Juliet sighed. "Gus, how about if _you_ go into the kitchen?"

"Don't mind if I do," he said, "because I need a refill anyway."

When he was out of sight she said quietly to Shawn, "I'm leaving."

"Yeah? Where are you going?"

She looked at him.

For once, he didn't play dense. He clambered up off the floor without knocking his head against the table and crossed to where she waited. "Sweetie, why?"

"This isn't working. At least it's not working for me."

"It's working for _me_ ," he said earnestly, and it probably was.

"I need to step back." Her heart was squeezing, but This Was Right.

"No, no, no, we should talk about it first. You should have told me there was a problem."

"I have, Shawn, many times. Now I'm done."

He looked around the room, at a loss, and obviously not sure where to start. "What about..."

"I'll come over in a few days and we'll talk about everything. I think Gus should move in here. This place is big enough for you two to both have your separate spaces, and as long as you pay your share and do your share—"

He started to shut down; she recognized that distant look. "Yeah, Jules, I really don't see that happening."

It was rare honesty, and Juliet was impressed. But it wasn't enough. "The lease is up in three months. I know I can pay my half for next month. We'll work it out."

"Why can't we work _this_ out instead?" He was sad, and that was real too; she knew he cared about her. "How can you say you're leaving and not tell me why or how to make it right? You even quit sleeping in the same room with me and I don't get to know why?"

 _I couldn't tell you why, not… the_ first _reason why._

Juliet took his hand and drew him into the living room to sit beside her on the sofa. "When you left town, when you and Henry were estranged, you pretty much flitted around the world for a few years, right? Never settling anywhere or sticking to anything?"

"That was a long time ago. I've changed." He grabbed one of the pillows to hold.

"Yes," she agreed, "you have. It's wonderful that you came back, worked things out with your dad, founded Psych and put down real roots. It's very good."

Shawn was studying her, but clutching the pillow as if it were a lifeline. "I also found you."

"Yes, you did. You found me, and you worked on me, and after _how_ many years finally got to where you sincerely wanted to commit to a relationship. Maybe for the first time in your life." When he nodded, she smiled and touched his arm. "That's good too, Shawn."

"So why are you leaving? I love you. I know you love me."

Juliet sighed. "It's just… look at Psych. You have it, sure, and you've stuck with it, but… you don't do anything to keep it going. You don't advertise, you don't go out and _get_ cases. You count on the SBPD to let you horn in on investigations we don't need you for, Gus pays the rent and utilities and the TiVo bill and mostly it's just a little clubhouse. Or it was until we moved here. Now _this_ is the clubhouse."

He protested, "No, honey. This is our home."

She kept going, keeping her voice calm. "Thing is, I can't help but compare it to our relationship. You _attained_ it, but then you stopped growing it. Like merely _having_ a live-in girlfriend is all you needed. We sleep under the same roof now but nothing else changed. I just pay more rent and do more housework. I'm not complaining," she pushed on when he again tried to speak. "I knew going in it'd be like this. I never thought you'd change your whole character for me, or even _should_. I just thought we'd… somehow go forward, somehow find a way to adapt to each other. I was optimistic, Shawn, without any reason to be. I just… know that what we have isn't what I want. And I know it's not going to change."

"Look," he tried, his voice low and earnest. "You said it yourself. The fact that I have Psych, and you, and even my dad, says I _can_ change. It shows I _have_ changed. You should have told me what you wanted. I could have worked toward that. I still can."

His ability to deny who he was, down to his core, had always amazed her. She said quietly, "How many times has your very best friend Gus asked you not to use his credit card?"

His hazel eyes darkened. "That's different. He's—is this about _Gus_?"

"No," she promised. "I love Gus. He's a great guy and in another universe you'd be happily married. You two have a twisted, backwards, unbalanced and completely unhealthy relationship which is totally perfect for you."

" _You're_ perfect for me, Jules," he insisted.

"No, honey. If I were, I wouldn't need to leave." She leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm not half the partner for you that he is." Getting up, she looked down at his unhappy face and felt pain for what she was doing, but resolve because it was necessary and long overdue. "You did the best you could and so did I, but this is the end."

He didn't get up when she walked out, and she didn't start crying until she was several blocks away.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Before he left Manda's place on Monday morning—but after he was fully dressed and safely on the other side of the room—she swore she _did_ want to see where this thing with him was going, and promised to slow down, because he was all kinds of cool and sexy and she wanted to get to know him.

He didn't know if he was sexy (he didn't mind being thought of as cool), but took her at her word.

She had to work the next few nights but was free on Thursday, and they went out to Stearns Wharf for dinner at Moby Dick's. As always, he found her witty and charming and enjoyed the flirtation. She seemed to prefer keeping everything light, but he figured there was still time to learn about each other. Early days yet, he assured himself.

So when she dragged him behind an SUV after the sun went down and mauled him a little, he could take it; it wasn't _too_ public and it wasn't _too_ intense… up until the moment her hand wandered under his belt and he came back to his senses and stopped her.

"Sorry," she said breathlessly. "I just find you so very _very_ hot."

He smoothed her lavender lock of hair and kissed her previously roaming fingers. "You're hot too but the last thing either one of us needs is an arrest for public indecency." He tucked his shirt back in and ran his hands through his own hair to smooth it down from where she'd mussed it.

"Not again, anyway," she teased.

"Not _ever_." _Detective Dipstick_ couldn't afford it. He could just imagine what career-wrecking havoc someone like Spencer would make of an arrest report of that nature involving _him_.

Manda consented to merely holding his hand as they returned to his car, and laughed when he refused to walk her to her apartment door. He did watch to make sure she got in safely, and thus didn't miss her raising her skirt to flash him before she disappeared.

 _Damn_. Hormones aside, he was starting to see there'd been an up side to the " _nice, but…_ " aspects of his ill-fated relationship with Emily.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .  
**

Juliet found a decent extended-stay hotel near the police station and stayed there the rest of the week. She had bookmarked some apartment ads but didn't want to commit to any particular rent until she knew how things were going to play out with Shawn. Her name was on their lease alongside his, and she was liable for half the rent for the next three months.

Granted, this was better than the _full_ amount she'd been paying since he seldom got around to contributing his share, but her salary only went so far, and she'd already laid out a chunk of her savings toward furnishing the house.

Maybe some extra shifts for overtime pay, she reflected. At least for awhile.

Another thing she had to do was tell Carlton and the Chief, but she wanted a little breathing room, if Shawn would allow it.

He'd been texting her. Little 'love you' and 'come home' messages. But he hadn't called and he hadn't been to the station and no one was looking at her funny so maybe he wasn't ready to broadcast the breakup either.

On Friday she signed up to work some overtime over the weekend. Just one shift for starters. She needed to reserve Saturday for finding a cheap apartment. If she could score something near the station she might be able to walk instead of drive, which would save on gas money.

Carlton came up behind her while she was looking at rental ads on Friday afternoon. She sensed his presence—smelled his faint cologne—and closed the browser window unhurriedly, turning to face him.

His perceptive blue eyes were curious but he said nothing, only handed her a case folder and went back to his desk.

He'd been saying _nothing_ a lot the past few months. They were working very well together, better than ever, but he did not speak of either her personal life or his.

She would tell him next week.

She would.

Abruptly he got up and strode back to her desk, expression shuttered but his voice even, and those Mediterranean blue eyes showing everything and nothing all at the same time.

"Everything okay?" he asked, and Juliet had the oddest sensation they were on exactly the same wavelength.

"It will be," she said honestly and smiled, because when he looked like that it was either smile or melt into goo.

Carlton relaxed. "You ever need a place to crash, O'Hara, for any reason, any time, my spare bedroom's yours." With that he was gone again, this time out of the bullpen completely.

Juliet stared after him, mouth open in shock.

 _What the hell just happened?_

He took one look at her screen full of apartment ads, deduced she was moving out, and offered her a place to stay? In the course of ten seconds? No questions, no I-told-you-sos? And not even one shred of doubt that he'd read the situation correctly?

Yes. Yes, he did.

Because he knew her better than anyone else. Because he cared about her. Because he was her Gus.

Because he was her _Carlton_.

And she loved him, for all of it. Dammit, she loved him.

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

The trouble with acting on instinct was that sometimes his instincts were colossally stupid.

Not _wrong_ , but likely to kill him.

Of _course_ Juliet would decline his offer, but what in the hell would he do if she accepted it?

Of _course_ whatever trouble she was currently having with Spencer (which perhaps explained her recent tiredness) would be resolved. She always forgave him and always took him back.

Of _course_ having her across the hall in his guest room would be torture.

 _Not necessarily,_ Mr. Enough Now pointed out _. You do have Manda to distract you, and she is very very distracting._

He hadn't invited Manda over to his place yet. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. It still felt too soon.

If Juliet did take him up on the offer, did that mean he had to tell Manda about it? Not telling Emily about his attractive female partner up front caused her to break off their relationship. He suspected Manda might be more tolerant, but then he simply didn't know her well enough yet to guess what her reaction might be.

Meanwhile, Juliet was hurting. He saw it in her dark blue gaze, no matter how level it was, when she turned to him after closing the browser. He couldn't just stand by and do _nothing_. Even Mr. Enough Now didn't argue that point.

He thunked his head against the cold restroom wall, and then again for good measure. Didn't help.

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

Before the end of the day, Juliet texted Carlton a simple "thank you."

He glanced across the bullpen and nodded, expression again unreadable.

She knew she couldn't accept his offer. Feeling the way she did about him, and knowing he was with Emily, staying in his spare room was a risk she couldn't take right now.

When she got to the hotel she stopped in the office to ask for an extra blanket. The a/c in her room had two settings: low/Death Valley, or high/Ice Age.

The night manager said she'd send some along, and then added, "Could I ask … you're a police officer, right?"

Juliet knew the woman had seen her badge when she registered on Tuesday evening. "Yes. Is there a problem?"

"No, no—did you say how long you would be staying with us?" She had a matter-of-fact air about her, but her present tone was unduly curious.

"At least another week. I'm between apartments and need to stay close to the station."

"Well, by coincidence," the manager pushed on, "we're between security guards."

Juliet smiled slowly. "Ah… my full-time job is all I can handle."

"Oh, it's nothing like that. Our new night guard can't start until next Friday. You wouldn't have to patrol or anything. If you were amenable to just… being a sort of first responder until then, I could offer you a substantial discount on your room rate."

She hesitated.

The woman—nametag Rebecca—added, "It's a pretty quiet place. The only trouble we tend to have is around the pool when someone sneaks booze in."

Still she hesitated. "How substantial a discount?"

Rebecca grinned. "Fifty percent."

That was a nice number, she had to admit. "You do call 911 when there's trouble, right?"

"Absolutely. Hotel policy."

"And no patrolling the property?"

"Not for you. Just the occasional appearance when we need a police presence fast."

Juliet thought about her bank account balance. "Okay, deal."

Rebecca was thrilled, the rate was adjusted, and Juliet's extra blankets were waiting when she got to her room.

Not a bad end to the day.

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

Manda, he decided, liked to push his buttons.

She also liked to unbutton his buttons and unzip his zipper but so far he'd managed to keep sex off the table. Also the bed, the chair, and currently her sofa.

"You said," he protested as he tried to disentangle from her Sunday afternoon, "that you wanted to get to _know_ me."

"I do, baby. I do. There's just something about you and your gorgeous eyes and that sternum bush which makes me want to know you in the Biblical sense too. You were so utterly delicious the first time," she added with a leer.

He made it to his feet and held her off with one long arm. "You are very attractive," he admitted, "and _very_ tempting, and I am taking a hell of a lot of cold showers lately. But you have to dial it back, Manda. I'm begging you."

Manda laughed, sitting cross-legged and delightfully disheveled on his abandoned end of the sofa. "I'm sorry. It's your fault for being so sexy."

"I'm not sexy," he said crossly, sprawling into the armchair. "And button your shirt."

She grinned, and parted her blouse even more. "This shirt?" Her bra was red and lacy and Carlton eyed her cleavage. " _This_ one?"

"That one, Jezebel."

Unfazed, she left the blouse open and instead leaned back, arms behind her head. "I'm too overheated to button up right now."

He was overheated himself but he could not allow himself to succumb. If this fledgling relationship was going anywhere at all, it needed to include some _conversation_ , along with some time spent fully clothed and not touching.

What did he even know about her? She worked in the coffee shop at night to pay off her car, and her day job was in a bookstore. She spoke of friends she wanted him to meet, liked dogs and avoided onions.

He _liked_ onions, but this wasn't a deal-breaker.

"Please," he said with severity. "Button the blouse."

"You'll miss them when they're hidden," she cajoled, trailing her fingers along the lace.

Carlton swallowed. "As long as I have an imagination, they're never really hidden."

Manda burst out laughing and took pity on him, buttoning the blouse and offering instead to turn on the TV.

But then she wanted to watch _9 ½ Weeks_.

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

Juliet went over to the house on Sunday after her extra shift at the station, knowing it was time to talk to Shawn about the details of the breakup.

She'd texted that she was coming and he responded with 'OK,' but his Norton wasn't in sight.

Gus' Blueberry, however, was in the driveway, and he himself was in the kitchen eating fast-food tacos from a bag. "Hey, Juliet. Hope you don't mind. I didn't know when you'd get here."

She settled in the chair across from his. "Not that I mind seeing you, but where's Shawn? Are you his designated mediator?"

He sighed a little. "Yeah. He asked if I'd stand in for him. He said for you to take what you want and he'll deal with the rest."

Simple enough, she supposed. "Will you move in with him?"

Gus blanched. "I couldn't survive that. I don't know how you did."

"Gus, come on. You two spend eighteen hours a day together anyway; why not share rent and utilities?"

"Share," he scoffed. "I love Shawn, Juliet, but I need a space where I can have things how _I_ want them. You've seen the Psych office, right? You know what I'm talking about."

"I understand. But look, you're paying most of the bills on the office, all of your own and a lot of his. Why not reduce your overall costs and—"

He held up his hand. "Juliet, Shawn moved fifteen times in the last eight years. If I share this place with him he's just as likely to move out on a whim as stay, and I'd be stuck with way more rent than I can handle."

It struck her again that she didn't understand Shawn at all. But she'd loved him enough to take a chance things could work out, hadn't she?

She looked down at the placemat as a wave of sadness overtook her.

Gus said gently, "I know you care about him. He knows it too. You gave it a really good shot, Juliet. Don't beat yourself up about it."

"He's really lucky to have you," she whispered. "I think I am too."

He grinned. "You know that's right."

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

Carlton sometimes stopped at the farmers' market on Tuesday before work. If he bought fresh vegetables they'd keep in the station fridge—well and threateningly marked—or in a bag under his desk, and he made a pretty impressive chef salad if he did say so himself.

Waiting in line to pay for his cucumbers and tomatoes, he idly watched a family a few feet away. A mother and two kids, a laughing dad and a cooing baby in a carrier.

 _Some day... maybe_.

He smiled—without benefit of a morning joe, even—and thought if he stayed on this Give Up Juliet track he might just have a shot.

From his right, Manda appeared, beaming and pretty in the morning sun. He'd decided he liked that lavender streak in her hair, but wouldn't rush to introduce her to his mother.

Of course, he never rushed to introduce _anyone_ to his mother.

"Hey, sexy! Didn't know you hung out here."

She pressed up alongside him and kissed his cheek, which was fairly chaste for Manda, but in the next second he felt one of her hands on his ass and the other right smack dab over his crotch.

Jerking away from her, he snapped, "Hey!"

Manda laughed. "I was just seeing where _else_ you might keep cucumbers."

"Knock it off! There's _kids_ here," he barreled on, gesturing to the family, who'd turned at the noise. He lowered his voice and pulled on her arm to drag her out of earshot. "That was completely out of line."

"Oh, Carlton, relax. No one saw anything."

Carlton glared at her, taking in both her complete lack of awareness of how angry he was as well as how inappropriate her actions were.

She patted his face. "You are _adorable_."

"You're… not," he said flatly. "You have a problem."

Her eyes widened. "Well… maybe I get a little carried away, but—"

He thrust his bagged vegetables at her. "I have to go."

Striding clear of the market, he knew one thing for sure: this was most likely the end of the road for him and the girl with the lavender-streaked hair.

The certainty was cemented when he got to the station and entered her name into the database, because on the ride over he'd suddenly remembered the way she'd laughingly said "not _again_ , anyway," the night on the pier when he said they shouldn't take a chance on being arrested for public indecency.

First surprise, since nothing came up under Manda Crockett, was that her given name was _Amanda_ after all.

Second surprise, and sadly no surprise at all: along with the pot bust and car-keying incidents she had _admitted_ to, there were also four— _four_ —arrests for public indecency. He read each charge grimly: sex on a park bench, sex under the pier, sex in the middle of a stadium after hours, and sex in a… holy Mother of God, sex in a church pew?

His phone buzzed: a text from the sex fiend in question.

 _How mad are you, my studmuffin?_

 _You had sex in a church? BEFORE A CHRISTENING?_

 _That mad, huh._

She called, and he was too angry _not_ to answer, but he did take the phone into the conference room .

"Look, I assumed you ran my priors."

"No! I thought you'd told me the worst!"

"Honey, come on. So I get over-excited! I keep telling you how sexy you are, don't I? You really rocked my world on our first date, and I—"

" _Amanda_ ," he said deliberately, "I told you I needed to go slow, and I told you I didn't do public displays. You... you _fondled_ me about five feet away from small _children_. That's... that's just creepy. I meant what I said: you have a problem. Get therapy, and get it now. And lose my number. We're done dating." He ended the call with a savage jab to the screen, and paced around the table for a few minutes until he felt calm enough to return to his desk.

But he snagged a cruller from the coffee bar to help the process along.

 **. . . . .  
** **. . . .**

Today was the day.

Thursday, sunny, lunch at one of their usual spots after a witness interview. Juliet was feeling calm and settled and hardly at all jealous of Emily freakin' Adkins.

She had rented a small storage unit a few days ago and every morning before work stopped by the house to collect items which belonged to her. Shawn was always still asleep, dead to the world or pretending to be, and she left a note each time listing what she'd taken.

She was no closer to finding an apartment, or having the time to look for one, but felt she was moving forward nonetheless.

Carlton, this week, had seemed tense, but it wasn't directed at her. He hadn't asked her about her living arrangements but she knew he'd noticed Shawn's absence. One afternoon, Dobson mentioned he hadn't seen him lately and Carlton, after a glance over at Juliet, responded only, "Enjoy it while it lasts."

Well, it was going to last.

"I broke up with Shawn," she said after he set his empty tea glass down.

Those large blue eyes focused on her at once, searching her in the way only Carlton could—the quintessential detective in all things—but he said nothing.

"Last week. It's over."

Still he hesitated. "You moved out?"

"Yes."

"You… okay?" His tone was part caution, part concern, part gruff, part _don't-you-dare-tell-anyone-I-give-a-damn_.

Juliet let out a breath. "Yes, I am. I wanted to tell you before anyone else, and after we get back to the station, I'll tell the Chief. So far he's not making any trouble but you know he's… unpredictable. "

Carlton rolled his eyes, but kept his opinion to himself. "Where are you staying?"

"At that extended-stay hotel three blocks over."

His dark brows furrowed immediately. "That's not—"

"It's perfectly fine," she assured him. "The clientele is pretty low-key."

"I meant you don't have to stay in a hotel at all," he muttered.

For a few seconds her heart thudded, and she couldn't think what to say.

"I saw you signed up for overtime," he added. "If that's for the money, you know you—" He stopped again and took a breath, reaching up to scratch at his neck. "Never mind. I'm butting out. But if you need anything, let me know." The waitress set the check down and he grabbed it up, rising in the same second to head to the register.

Always running when he's embarrassed, she thought dimly, but she couldn't absorb every message wrapped up in his rush of words, because her brain quit working when his hand, pushing back at his collar just now, had exposed a hickey on his neck.

And that could only mean one thing.

Emily Adkins had to die.

If he thought she was quiet on the ride back to the station because she didn't like his offer of help, he was wrong. He glanced at her several times, and she tried to radiate calm, but mainly she was struggling to quell the furious jealousy coursing through her system.

 _Get a grip, O'Hara. You knew he had a girlfriend, and where there's a girlfriend, there's going to be hickeys._

God knew _she'd_ be leaving them all over his lean body if she had the chance.

Which thought gave her goosebumps.

 _Just keep your mouth shut, O'Hara._

 _Keep. It. The. Hell. Shut._

Carlton parked the car and they walked toward the station, and still he said nothing and she said nothing.

"So I guess things are going well with you and Emily," she said when they were nearly to the steps, because she was a nosy and masochistic _fool_.

He took one step more before her words registered, and turned at once. "Why do you say that?"

Juliet looked up into his blue, blue eyes and realized his tone was one of consternation. "Well, I noticed… um…" She gestured helplessly to her own throat.

Carlton's hand immediately went to his, and he flushed. "Oh. No. Emily broke it off because she was freaked about you. This is from Manda." Then he turned again and bounded up the steps.

"Wait, _what_? Emily—freaked about—wait! Who the _hell_ is _Manda_?"

 _And why is someone named Manda sucking on your damned neck?_

Juliet raced after him, knowing she was about to make an absolute idiot of herself, but Carlton had come to a stop at the front desk, signing in briskly.

Sergeant Allen cleared her throat before Juliet could say a single stupid word. "Detective Lassiter, you have a visitor."

He turned as she pointed to a woman who was approaching him from the bench.

"Hello, Carlton." She was attractive, dressed casually but expensively, with long brown hair and a wide, almost knowing smile.

 _Helloooo Manda_ , Juliet hissed internally, _and welcome_ _to_ my _turf_. _Don't count on making it out_ alive _, sweetie._

Carlton said with surprise, "Hi. What brings you here?"

 _Probably more neck-sucking_ , Juliet thought bitterly, and had to stop herself from reaching for her service weapon. She wished she could see Carlton's face but his back was to her.

"Have you got a few minutes to talk?"

After a moment—Juliet really really _really_ wanted to see his eyes—he said, "Yeah, sure," and took the accursed woman's elbow to lead her down the hall.

Juliet drew in a breath, trying to collect herself.

"Figures," Allen went on, and Juliet looked at her now. She was watching them progress down the hall toward the conference room, and her expression was baleful.

"What'd he do?" Sometimes he accidentally walked off with the sign-in pen and Allen tended to take it personally.

Allen glanced at her. "Him? Nothing. _Her_."

"What'd _she_ do?"

 _You know, other than freaking_ exist.

"You don't know?" After Juliet shook her head, Allen's expression cleared. "Right, maybe you never met her. Lucky you are, too. Damn woman did enough damage when she was in the picture."

"So who is she?" she asked faintly, afraid she already knew.

"Detective O'Hara, that there is the ex-Mrs. Lassiter, Victoria Heart-Stomping Parker herself."

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton closed the door to the conference room while Victoria was selecting a chair, thinking in one big jumble _ItoldJulietEmilydumpedmebecauseofher, nowsheknowsaboutManda, IKNOWthatwasoutrageIheardwhileIwasfleeing_ and _whatthehellisVICTORIAdoinghere_?

And loudest of all, _Juliet ended it with Spencer. She ended it with him. Ended. It._

 _It wasn't just a spat. She moved out. She_ ended _it._

He sat across from his ex-wife and dredged up a smile. "What brings you by?"

Victoria flipped her hair over her shoulder; he could see she was still having it professionally colored, but it looked reasonably natural. Her gaze was even and yet a little… knowing.

Meeting that gaze impassively, he thought again that her eyes could be blue or gray or green—he'd never really been sure _what_ color they were, which dovetailed nicely with all the other things he'd never been sure about with her. Four rocky years of marriage and close to three years of separation before the divorce and sometimes he couldn't even remember when he believed he'd known her at all, let alone known her enough to love her and want to marry her.

 _Ah, the good old days. When you still thought you belonged with Victoria, had just been professionally burned by Spencer because of your screw-up with Lucinda, and had absolutely no idea that your next partner was going to capture your useless heart and keep it locked up tight forever._

"You look good, Carlton."

Her voice was still smoky, one of the things he'd liked about her. But he still didn't know why she was sitting in this room right now. "Somehow I doubt that's what you came here to say."

Victoria was amused. "No, but you _do_. Age is settling on you very well—I see a little of Cary Grant and a little of—"

Carlton cut her off. "If the next name out of your mouth is going to be Mr. Bean, Tony Randall or the Scarecrow, I don't want to hear it."

Now she chuckled. "Actually I was going to say George Clooney."

He could feel his eyebrows shooting up. "Ah. Thanks. So… why did you say you were here?"

Victoria was still smiling, as if she understood him, but if there was one thing about her he was _completely_ sure about, it was that she didn't understand him at all: never had, never would.

"Try to relax, Carlton," she said kindly. "It's been a few years since our last meeting. I'm just saying you look good and it's nice to see you. I thought we parted on good terms."

 _Standing in the restaurant looking down at her, swearing he'd let her go because that's what she wanted—not what_ he _wanted, not then—were those good terms?_

Well, in fairness, he supposed they were better than the years which preceded them.

Letting out a breath, he sat back in the chair and crossed his arms. "Okay. I guess we did. But you were never in the habit of dropping by the police station before, so I'm understandably curious."

She flipped hair over her shoulder again and he wondered if it was a nervous habit she'd picked up. "I… all right, I'll just jump in. I have a situation in my neighborhood and I was hoping you could give me some advice about it."

"I'm listening."

With _part_ of his brain. The rest of it was still lost in _Juliet is single_ and _shut up it's still not going to happen_ and _but if she ended it with Spencer and recently kissed you then_ … and _ENOUGH NOW, you idiot whackaloon_.

"It's the house next door to mine. I've been hearing some… odd noises, at odd times, and I guess I just want someone to tell me whether to worry or not."

"What does your husband think?"

Blinking, perhaps at the bluntness of the question, Victoria smiled slightly. "That… marriage didn't… take."

Carlton surprised himself by passing up the opportunity to be snarky. "What kind of noises have you been hearing?"

"Well…" She seemed embarrassed. "Screams?"

"Is that a question?"

A flicker of annoyance lit her eyes, but vanished quickly. "No. They're screams. Cries. Moans. It's disturbing."

"Who lives there?"

"That's the thing. It's just this old man. He's in his seventies, he walks with a cane, he seems to be in good health when I see him out in his yard. He doesn't drive, and his family all lives out of state. I don't think he gets many visitors."

Carlton kept his tone even. "You're sure the noises come from his house?"

"Definitely. The lot next to mine is empty and he's on the corner."

"And the houses behind yours?"

"The… properties are very large," she said almost apologetically.

 _Yes, Victoria, I know your second marriage was to a wealthy man. I remember your disappointment that I couldn't bring pots of money home every night. I have a nice long memory, thanks._

"What time of day do you hear these noises?"

"Late. After nine or ten o'clock usually. Not every night." She went on in a rush, "It's not the TV, either. If it were, I'd hear other sounds too."

He'd give her that. "Have you ever talked to him? Or maybe someone in the neighborhood association?" Because no way would she live in a neighborhood which didn't have a neighborhood association, and he further assumed it was a gated community, because, duh, divorced or not, Irving Parker wouldn't let his baby daughter go without luxury.

Victoria seemed helpless now. "He's the president."

Carlton couldn't conceal the tiniest of smiles. "All right—and please don't think I'm making light of your problem—what you're telling me is that you're hearing strange noises from the home of a man who appears to be healthy, who has no visitors or family, and presumably is unlikely to be serial killer material unless he's got ninja skills with his cane."

"I knew this was a mistake," she muttered.

 _Should have thought of that before you came over, Tori._

 _And by the way, I never liked calling you Tori. It felt fake._

But in the next second, she became earnest again. "Carlton, I swear I'm not crazy. These screams… these cries… they're creepy as hell. Either something's going on in that house or… I don't know. But it's really getting to me. Please tell me what to do, not as my annoyed ex-husband but as an officer of the law."

Damn her for hitting below the belt. Now he _had_ to take her seriously.

"Okay, okay. Trust me, I know you wouldn't be here without good reason." He got out his notebook. "What's the guy's name?"

"Ted Ridgway." She gave him the address. "Thank you. You should…"

Carlton looked up. "I should what?"

"You should really come hear the noises yourself. I _know_ it's not the TV but I suppose it could be something else. I've been overthinking it so long that maybe I really don't know what I'm hearing."

He debated the possibilities. On the one hand, it would be privately delightful to discover the source of the noise was just a squeaky window; on the other hand, he was supposed to be mature enough to avoid snickering. And maybe the guy _was_ up to something nasty. Apart from the general _appeal_ of apprehending someone like that, it was also his job.

Of course, he _could_ simply have a patrol car hang out in the area and respond the next time she heard the noises.

Or he could just suck it up and go over there. After everything else over the last few days, spending half an hour at his ex's place wouldn't kill him.

Much.

 **. . . . .  
. . . . **

Juliet shamelessly watched the two of them in the conference room. She had to take up a position over by Carlton's desk—since standing at the window staring over the top of the coffee bar would have been a _little_ too obvious—but she could see Victoria reasonably clearly.

 _So that's what she looks like. Going for the understated elegance look_. She guessed Victoria was Carlton's age, no younger, _definitely not younger and why do you sound so satisfied about that_ she asked herself, then ignored the question completely in favor of continuing to shamelessly watch them.

Carlton's body language, as much as she could tell through the open blinds, was "suspect-relaxed." It was the way he looked when he wanted a suspect—who didn't know him—to think everything was peachy.

So everything _wasn't_ peachy.

She smiled.

But then he sat back, and _Victoria_ smiled, and they stood up and came to the door. Juliet darted back over to her desk and as they passed— _that's right, escort her heart-stomping butt out of here_ —she heard clearly, "… eight-thirty tomorrow night?" from the heart-stomper.

To which Carlton replied easily, "Fine."

The heart-stomper said with another smile, "I still make a mean apple crumble."

And she could see Carlton turn to her and _smile back_.

This was turning out to be a very very _very_ bad day.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Returning to his desk, and marveling at the look of sympathy leveled at him by Patricia Allen—who didn't even _like_ him—once Victoria was out the door, Carlton glanced over toward Juliet's desk. She wasn't in sight, and he wasn't sure whether this was bad or good.

He _was_ sure he wanted to see her.

As if conjured up by his thoughts, she exited Karen Vick's office and headed down the hall, nodding at him neutrally but staying on her side of the bullpen.

His phone buzzed; text from the Chief : _My office. Discreetly. ASAP._

In a fairly smooth move, he gathered up some reports he knew she wanted to see anyway and strolled down to her office, where Karen immediately rose from her desk and came to him with an open folder.

"Don't close the door; let's just stand here and point to very interesting items in these reports." Her voice was low and her expression was all about the I-Will-Find-Out.

 _Oookay_ … he stood next to her with one open folder, and she did the same. "What's up?"

"O'Hara just came in, and in under thirty seconds announced that she and Spencer were quits and she would prefer that the two of you not have to work with Psych any time soon. Insights?"

Carlton looked down at her, forgetting to hide his surprise until she cleared her throat. "Oh. Well," he began, pointing at a line in the open report about vandalism, "She only told me over lunch. She's been looking kind of run-down the past few weeks and I noticed he hadn't been around but she never said anything."

Tapping the word "statistics" meaningfully, she said, "Is he going to be a problem?"

He spotted the word "probability" and tapped that. "One can only assume. But I don't know the specifics, and for the love of all that is holy, please don't ask me to find out."

Running a fingertip along a sentence about "due diligence," Karen smiled tightly. "Not at this juncture. But don't rule it out. I saw her name in the overtime list. Is that about occupying her time or having extra money?"

Ah, there it was: "fiscal responsibility." He tapped the phrase and closed the folder. "I think judging by his behavior with Guster's finances over the years, she might be low on funds. I'm sure their rental house cost a lot more than her last apartment."

 _You want to tell Karen you offered Juliet your spare room? And related to this, has there ever been a medical study as to exactly how far a person's eyes can roll back in her head?_

Karen closed her own folder. "Well, I'll allow overtime up to a point, but you and I both need to keep an eye on her to make sure she doesn't overdo it."

"I always have my eye on her," he said simply, and she nodded.

When he returned to his desk, Juliet immediately deposited herself in the chair next to it. "So that was Victoria?"

Carlton judged her to be tense but… tense. "Yes. You met her before, didn't you—oh, maybe not." It was only Victoria's 'charming' father Juliet had encountered.

"No, not. What did she want?" Still tense. Her dark blue eyes were fixed on him relentlessly.

"She's hearing strange noises from the house next door. Wants me to come take a listen."

Juliet frowned. "She couldn't just, you know, call 'the' cops? She had to come see you in person?"

He shrugged. "Better the devil you know?"

"What about the devil _you_ know?" she retorted. "I never met her, but I felt like I got to know her, and I sure didn't like her father. Why would you give her the time of day?"

"Uh… because I'm the better man?"

For a second she seemed amused, but then she was back to tense. "You _are_ the better man, but you could easily delegate this to someone else."

Tugging at his collar briefly until her gaze went to his neck and he remembered the infernal hickey, he studied his partner and tried to figure out what her deal was.

No luck.

"Look, the one good thing out of all the drama with Victoria back then is that as little I was liked, the people around here liked _her_ even less, and she knew it. Now, I hope to God that not one employee of the SBPD would ever give her less than quality service when called upon, but I can understand her reluctance to take a chance."

A frown marred her expression. "But that was years ago. Who even remembers her?"

He felt one eyebrow go up without his permission. "Well, _you_ do, and you never even met her. Why are you so aggravated about her today?"

Juliet stood up, smoothing her skirt. "She hurt you, Carlton. I know it was a long time ago but she hurt you. So I don't like her."

With that she walked off, leaving him staring after her in wonder.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

They were parked across from the hospital, waiting to meet with a nurse who had information about a case.

 _Tonight he's going to HER house to eat apple crumble._

Juliet fiddled with her right earring as an excuse to turn her head and unobtrusively get a look at Carlton.

 _Yep, still gorgeous._

His eyes were temporarily closed—he had a headache and his morning caffeine hadn't kicked in—and she studied his wavy black and silver hair ( _want to touch it_ ) and the line of his jaw and she remembered kissing him months ago, and how warm and wonderful and sexy his mouth—and wandering hands—had been.

 _Victoria gave that up. Hadn't appreciated him. But she comes asking for someone to listen to strange noises and he jumps on it?_

 _While still bearing the mark of the devil-beast Maaaaaaaaaaanda?_

His phone rang—no special ring so she didn't know who it was—and he scowled at the display. "What?" he barked.

Interesting.

Then he got out of the car, the bastard, and she heard him say, "I told you to lose this number."

He leaned against the closed door, perhaps forgetting the window was down a few inches, so Juliet unabashedly listened to his half of the conversation.

She was becoming a bad person.

No, a worse person.

"No, that's not why. Your behavior is why."

Almost like he was talking to a child.

"Not buying it. That last arrest was in December. And I still can't believe it. A _christening_?" His voice rose in incredulity.

Juliet was very interested now. One of his informants?

"In the _pew_. Really? You have an excuse for _that_?"

She could tell by his agitated movements that his tension was increasing.

"That wasn't 'slipping.' That was out and out indecent and inappropriate and… I don't know what, but it was unacceptable. Do you understand?" He listened a few more moments and then snapped, "No, I _wasn't_ okay with the park bench or the pier or the stadium! The church was just the worst!"

It was starting to get funny in its oddity. Who in the hell _was_ this person? And why didn't Juliet already… _ohhhhh_ …she suddenly felt cold.

It was one of his _women_. Probably—

"Using you? The hell? You jumped _me_!"

Angry silence for a few seconds.

"That's crap and you know it. Listen, _Amanda_ ," he said, stressing her name in a way Juliet didn't understand, "we are not compatible. Let this go. I don't care how much desperately-needed therapy you claim to be getting; it's going to be some other guy who finds out whether it worked."

He jabbed at the phone to end the call, shoved it in his pocket, ran his hands through his hair and let out a huge sigh.

Inside the car, Juliet felt wide-eyed.

Okay, so he'd slept with this woman, and it was over, but… he'd _slept_ with her. He was angry because she must be some kind of previously-arrested sex fiend and deceived him about it, but he'd slept with her.

Naked sleeping. With… _parts_.

Yes, he was single and yes, he had his own life, and yes, a hickey was a good indicator of some sort of intimate activities between two people, and yes, thank God it was over, but he'd had actual naked sex with this woman who wasn't her.

Plus, who _knew_ what naked depravity he might have engaged in with Emily 'Succubus' Adkins?

And tonight… tonight he was going over to the heart-stomper's house for heart-stomping apple crumble.

Hell, the way this summer was going, Victoria would probably have her naked heart-stomping way with him too.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .  
**

 _A/N: is there anyone out there? Most of my regular commenters fell eerily silent with the last chapter; did I put everyone to sleep? WELL **TOO BAD!** THE STORY CONTINUES! MUA **HA** HAHA **HA** HA **HAAAA!**_

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The snooty guard in the booth, to whom he gave his name for access to the gated community, wilted once Carlton made sure he saw his badge along with his iciest glare.

Victoria Parker ex-Lassiter ex-Townsend's home was about what he expected: large, set back on a perfect green lawn, and clearly very expensive, even in the dusk.

When she remarried not long after their divorce, he'd run a background check on the lucky groom (because while he had promised to let her go, he hadn't… _quite_ … let her go).

Alastair Townsend (of course he would have a name like Alastair, despite having been born in Peoria to chicken ranchers) was at the time resting on the laurels of successful stock market investments which supplemented his thriving law career. He was, Carlton noted with satisfaction, short and pasty, but then again, Victoria hadn't been drawn to his looks.

 _Why did she marry me at all?_ he asked himself again. Despite his upward ambition, she couldn't seriously have expected his cop's salary to fulfill her dreams. Could it really have been as simple as wanting to defy her father, who'd hated Carlton on sight?

Maybe he'd ask her again. During the long tense period of their marriage and separation, he'd asked more than once, but she only gave him sad platitudes about how they were very different people, growing apart, blah blah whatever. He never really believed it then. Maybe the passage of years would allow her to admit the truth now.

She was standing in the open garage, arms folded. Took him straight back to a memory of her waiting angrily one night when he was late for dinner because of a homicide. _Murder was no excuse for not calling_ , she'd said tightly, _and I don't care if the mayor wanted you in on the investigation personally_.

This evening she was smiling, wearing a long pale dress which showed off her slim figure, and damn if those dangling earrings weren't the ones he gave her for their second anniversary.

Carlton realized she must really _really_ want to know what was going on with her neighbor, to be this overtly nice to him.

"Thanks for coming," she said, and was her voice throatier than usual? "The dark colors bring out your big blue eyes. Not that they need any help." She smiled.

 _I'm on the job_ , he wanted to snap. _You don't have to…. lure._

He was wearing a dark shirt and jeans, the better to skulk with, and with merely a nod, waited while she lowered the garage door and led him inside.

"In a little while I'll go out and walk the perimeter of Ridgway's house," he told her. "You said there's no dogs? Nothing to announce me lurking? No parrots, Klaxon alarms, motion-sensor lights?"

Victoria looked over her shoulder, smiling. "Nothing like that. He leads a very quiet life, except for the screaming."

"Do you think it's Ridgway? Screaming?"

They'd come to a stop in her large bright expensive kitchen, and Victoria frowned. "Well… I don't know. I guess I can't tell, really. I don't think it's a child, and I do think it's human, but…"

That was conclusive.

"Where are you when you hear it?"

"Upstairs in my office." She led the way into the grand expensive hall and up the expensive staircase—slowly, he noted, so he wouldn't miss the expensive carpet and sparkling expensive chandelier—to the expensive second floor, where she swept past the expensive master bedroom and stopped in front of a door which opened into a room which looked more like a real person worked and lived there.

"I'm a partner in a decorating business," she offered, and indeed it seemed to be full of catalogs and fabric swatches and photos.

"Hmm," was all he said, because truthfully he didn't care, except it suited her: helping other wealthy people have expensively-decorated homes fit her basic nature.

He was more interested in the balcony doors leading to a narrow deck, wide enough for two expensive wooden loungers and a table big enough to hold an ice bucket and two champagne glasses. Not that the latter was in sight, but he could imagine.

The deck extended down to the master bedroom, and all of it faced the sloping back yard, where dark had settled in for the duration. Ridgway's house was to his right, with a few lower windows and one small upper story window lit.

"It's been so mild lately," Victoria said from behind him. "I work up here in the evenings and usually have the door open."

She was still attractive, he thought again, with her indeterminate-colored eyes and her faint smile, and he remembered kissing her back when she still loved him.

"Have you been inside his place?"

"A few times, when the neighborhood association has open house tours. I made some sketches," she said. "They're downstairs with the apple crumble." Her smile was, dammit, meant to _lure_.

It had been a _long_ summer, he thought, following her down to the kitchen. From kissing his Juliet—who'd been squirrelly as _hell_ today—to dating Emily to fending Manda off (eventually) with pure wrath, he had no idea what to make of his personal life.

But Victoria's apple crumble had always been tasty, so what the hell.

She gave him a cup of coffee to go with it, and slid a sketchbook over to him. "The side of the house closest to mine has a formal dining room plus the kitchen, along with a sunroom at the back his late wife used to use for sewing."

With one expensively-painted fingernail she gestured to other rooms she'd sketched out, both upstairs and down. She had no information about the basement but offered that there was an elevator in the middle of the house which helped him get up to his room at night. "His wife was disabled," she offered. "Been gone about five years."

"How long have you lived here?"

"Four." She leaned back, sipping her own coffee. "Alastair moved out two years ago."

 _Leaving you with the house, and you were probably happy with that deal._

 _And yet why tell me how long it's been over?_

He eyed her curiously. What _was_ her game?

"You're very much on edge tonight, Carlton." It sounded like a challenge, and her gaze was amused.

Carlton finished his apple crumble. "I'm working. That was good, by the way. Thanks. I'm going to go have a walk around Ridgway's property."

Her smile was knowing. "I'll wait right here."

He wasn't comforted.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Patrolling with Silvers on Saturday afternoon, Juliet found herself in the odd situation of wishing for some kind of street rumble they could interrupt. She felt like a good dust-up was what she needed, something to let off the steam building up in her head ever since she left work last night.

Carlton seemed to be in a relatively even mood after they talked to the hospital informant, and she couldn't tell how he felt about either the phone call which had stirred him to such frustration or about his upcoming visit to Victoria's House Of Apple Crumble Evil.

He wasn't shutting her out per se, she knew that. But he was shutting her out all the same, and the idea that he was slipping away just when she was…

She clenched her fist, her nails biting into her palm.

 _Just when she was ready to go after him._

Well, it sucked so royally that one royal family wouldn't have covered exactly how much it sucked.

She hadn't heard from him since they parted ways outside the station, and before she met up with Silvers for patrol she did a quick check of overnight arrest reports to see if anything had come of Victoria's screaming-neighbor situation: nothing.

 _It probably just means nothing happened, or he figured it out and it was nothing, and nothing happened. Nothing._

Her other fist clenched.

 _O'Hara_ , she could hear Carlton say with irritation, _what are the odds I would actually boink Victoria the first time I'm alone with her?_

All right, maybe Carlton wouldn't say 'boink.'

She answered him anyway with a tart: _Well, it doesn't seem you needed very long after Emily to boink Manda_.

To which Carlton-in-her-head said: _So what? What's it to you? Have_ you _shown any interest in being one of my boink-ees? As I recall, you couldn't get away from me fast enough after that kiss._

Silvers said, "On the right. Yellow Mustang."

Juliet dragged her attention back to her job and confirmed the Mustang was on their hot cars list, and while it wasn't quite the street war she needed to fully distract her, rounding the car up focused her energies until they finished the shift and she got back to the station.

Where she was staring at her phone when Chief Vick spoke. "Two weekends in a row by choice, O'Hara?"

Startled, Juliet looked up at her jeans-clad boss. "Chief. What brings you in?"

"Came by to pick up some stats for review. Iris and Richard are off on a father-daughter camping trip tonight." She gave Juliet one of her more piercing investigatory stares. "I hope you're not overdoing it."

"It was just patrol. Quiet day for the most part."

Karen sighed and took the chair next to her desk. "Off the record, O'Hara. Juliet. I understand you just ended a… complicated… relationship. I assume there's a lot going on. A lot of stress apart from the fact that it's because of Spencer in particular. But cold as it seems, I need you focused on your main job here, and working overtime every weekend isn't going to pay off in the long run."

Juliet was both touched and mildly affronted, the latter probably left over from her prickly Carlton-related mood. "It's temporary. I… I don't have a lot of cash reserves at the moment and this'll help get me situated in a new place."

Still Karen studied her. "You're sure? You know you can avail yourself of the EAP."

But the Employee Assistance Program didn't make _loans_ , not that Juliet was interested in one. The EAP provided more _talk_ -related assistance, and that was the Chief's point.

Juliet said evenly, "In the end, Chief, it was just a breakup. My financial problem won't last long, and the minute it seems I can't handle the overtime, I think we _both_ know Carlton will stomp on it."

To that riposte, Karen nodded in agreement, putting a hand on her shoulder briefly before she left.

Returning to the task at hand: to text Carlton or not? It was heading toward six o'clock, and truthfully she just needed some contact with him.

 _Hey Carlton. What's doing?_

 _At the moment, laundry. How was patrol?_

 _Quiet. Silvers drives a LOT less aggressively than you do._

 _Yeah, you little wuss, I get the job done. Are you tired?_

Juliet smirked at the former, frowned at the latter.

 _Meh. Did you figure out the noises in your ex's hood?_

She didn't want to dignify the heart-stomper with a full name.

 _Not yet. Don't overdo it, Juliet._

Damn him for calling her that when she was at her most… whatever the hell she was. Damn him!

She started pressing letters angrily.

 _Gaaaah, you & Vick act like I'm some faint flower who can't handle a few extra hours. Sometimes you and I work 12 hour days for 6 weeks straight & nobody says a WORD about not overdoing it then. What's the difference now? It's just freaking patrol. Last weekend I worked Booking & got to sit down & take breaks & everything. Even got some bread & water and a chance to pee. Jeez._

After she hit send, the following pause was pretty long.

 _Uh… sorry I expressed concern?_

Instantly she was remorseful instead of irritated.

 _Sorry. I do appreciate it. Just venting. Want to go get a pizza?_

Well, who the hell typed _that_? She couldn't believe the words came from _her_ fingertips.

The pause was long again.

 _Wish I could. Told V I'd go back for another listen._

She resisted the immediate urge to send a profanity-filled text.

 _Nothing last night?_

 _Quiet as the tomb._

Juliet resisted another immediate urge to send "too bad heart-stomper wasn't in it, buried under mounds of her Satanic apple crumble."

Yeah, she had a problem. Maybe talking to someone at the EAP wasn't such a bad idea.

Instead she put in another hour, off the clock, going through open case notes in hopes she could just damned well settle down and not think about him with HER any more.

She was on her way out of the station and nearly to her car when Shawn called her name.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton dressed in dark clothes, put fresh batteries in his pocket flashlight, and asked himself why he was going over there again.

A pizza with Juliet sounded much better, even if the invitation had been unexpected.

Friday afternoon she'd been touchy in the extreme. It _seemed_ to start during their talk with the nurse at the hospital, but lately he had no idea how to read her. Was this just some sort of post-Spencer mania?

But then he couldn't read Victoria either.

 _That_ wasn't new; he couldn't read her while they were married. Or separated. Or even, if he was completely honest about it, back when they were "happy."

For a long time he believed he simply couldn't read women at all, but he knew it wasn't true. He knew he had a pretty good handle on Juliet most of the time, because she was usually open and communicative. These days she was keeping everything to herself—not that he blamed her; he was too—so when she did let something out, it usually blindsided him.

Like a rant about overtime.

Like an offer for pizza.

 _You're not going to figure her out, so get to work already_.

After scoping out Ted Ridgway's property Friday night—all very neat and trim and orderly, no odd sounds, no strange emanations through the windows—he'd slipped back into Victoria's house and spent the next ninety minutes out on her office balcony.

She brought him more apple crumble and coffee. He let her smoky voice wash over him as she talked of what she'd admired about his career, and he understood she was trying to get in his good graces, but he still wasn't sure why. He'd come here to do the job, he was doing the job, and she didn't have to linger in his presence.

 _Luring_.

Eventually the lights in the Ridgway house went out, and he called it quits—but before he got into his car and she raised the garage door, Victoria leaned in to kiss his cheek.

Her scent was familiar… and new… and he couldn't say anything to her other than that he'd come back tonight.

And so here he was, driving toward her expensive house in her expensive neighborhood, when he'd rather be squeezed into a booth somewhere with Juliet across from him, laughing (or even _not_ laughing) and hoping she couldn't see how much, after this summer of damnably unreadable women, he still hadn't been able to shake himself free of his feelings for her.

His path took him by the police station, and out of habit he glanced toward the building. He spotted Juliet's Bug at once— _what is she still doing there? her shift ended over an hour ago_ —and then beyond it, he spotted Juliet herself.

Automatically slowing the Fusion to watch her, he wondered what Victoria would think if he showed up with his partner— _you know, the better to check out Ridgway with_.

A smirk; he definitely felt a smirk, along with the warmth accompanying the idea of being with his Juliet at all.

Then another figure approached her.

She turned to respond to whatever the man said to get her attention.

She also responded, apparently warmly, to the hug he gave her.

A really close, long hug.

 _Spencer._

Carlton speeded up, telling his suddenly-squeezed heart this was to be expected. Spencer was always going to try to woo her back, and Juliet was always going to be susceptible to his dubious charms.

"Mr. Enough Now" tried to talk some sense into him, but right now, right this very aching second, Carlton pushed the voice away and let all the old negative voices back, because damn it all, _they'd_ never let him down.

By Monday she'd be back with the asshat.

 _Son of a bitch_.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton beat back his internal cacophony enough to get to the job at hand. Focusing on work had always saved him before, and this dumb-ass task could be no exception.

After he got past the slightly-less-snooty booth guard, he drove the entire area looking for anything off kilter. Then he parked a few streets away from Victoria's house and covered the territory on foot, texting her what he was doing and that he'd turn up eventually.

Nothing seemed off. The expensive neighborhood seemed quiet and inoffensive _despite_ all the rich people.

His background check of Theodore "Ted" Ridgway turned up only that he'd made his fortune in the clothing industry and had retired twenty years earlier with his late wife to gated-snootiness peace and quiet. His children were scattered across the country, and the only criminal violation was a ticket for turning left on a red arrow back in '91 when he was trying to get his then-ailing wife to a hospital. Couldn't fault him for that.

Dark had fallen fast and thick tonight, like his mood, but he was ready to stay the course. Leaving his car where it was, he walked to Victoria's house and knocked quietly on the side door to her kitchen.

Tonight's offering—the aroma wafted to him while he was still on the steps—was cinnamon coffee cake, another of her prized recipes.

"All quiet on the Ridgway front?" he asked by way of greeting.

She closed the door behind him. "Yep. He weeded his flowerbeds this afternoon. Looked quite chipper."

Victoria looked chipper herself, he reflected, her hair upswept and a lot of smooth skin showing thanks to her scoop-neck sleeveless dress.

 _She remembered I loved her skin._

 _What in the hell is she_ doing _, and why in the_ hell _am I here?_

For starters, he was eating cake and drinking coffee, but after a few minutes of odd silence—during which she kept smiling—he set his cup down. "Any chance you're being played?"

Her eyebrows rose.

He persisted, "By a disgruntled neighbor? Wandering punks? Alastair the ex?"

A smile curved her lips. "I don't think so. There aren't many roving bands of hoodlums around here, Carlton, and anyone trying to get at me would need Ted's cooperation, since the noises come from his place. If anyone in the neighborhood association wanted me out—and I don't know why that would be—they could take more direct means. This isn't the land of Scooby Doo." She set her own cup down, leaning back against the kitchen counter. "As for Alastair, we parted amicably. I got the house free and clear in exchange for no alimony. He probably got a nice tax write-off for it."

 _Hmmm_ , he thought. "Any chance you're playing _me_?"

Now she laughed. "Carlton, be serious. Why would I do that?"

He had no idea. That was the problem. "Good cop's gotta cover all the bases." Taking the mug, he headed upstairs to the balcony outside her office, ready for the cool evening air to clear his head again… or make a valiant effort.

After awhile Victoria followed, bringing another serving of the coffee cake.

"You know," she commented from the open doorway, silhouetted by the light behind her, "you've been pretty tightly wound since last night. Isn't it time to let the past die?"

Carlton let his gaze wander to her long legs, clearly outlined through the gauzy dress, then looked away again. "The past _is_ dead. It's the present I don't get."

"What don't you get?" She lowered herself into the adjoining lounge chair, crossing those legs and giving him a seemingly benign smile.

He felt something crackle inside him. "Why did you marry me?"

Victoria was taken aback. "Because I loved you."

It sounded so simple. And so false.

"Is that the _only_ reason?"

"What other reason did I need?"

"I'm sure you've been to more than one trendy therapist over the years. Surely one of them suggested it might have had a _little_ something to do with antagonizing your father."

Her smile _seemed_ genuine. "Oh, Carlton. Back then I wasn't… look, I don't deny I hadn't fully formed my… my mindset, if you will, about the world and what I wanted from it. I suppose I can admit that my father's instant dislike of you—especially when there wasn't anything for him to dislike except that you showed you had a spine—may have made me more determined to see it through, but I promise I loved you. I would never have married any man just to prove a _point_."

Well, that sounded good, but it didn't answer all the questions. "Then why didn't you fight for the marriage when we hit the rocks? Why weren't you even more determined to prove he was wrong about me?"

Because it still bothered him that he'd been the only one trying to keep things going. He understood _now_ how he'd blundered through his attempts like a blindfolded bear on angel dust rampaging through a gossamer fairy-wing factory, but by God, he'd at least _made_ those attempts.

Victoria only smiled again. "But I didn't need to prove he was wrong about you. Of _course_ he was wrong about you. But he wasn't wrong about the _marriage_. We weren't suited for each other then; do you really expect me to say we were?"

He stared at her, still trying to understand her. "So why are you… dammit, why are you flirting with me now?"

 _She'd better not deny it. I'm dense but I'm not blind._

To her credit, she didn't deny a thing. She turned on the lounge chair, facing him fully. "Because time has passed. We've both lived and learned and… maybe I never really let go of the dream, Carlton. The dream of us. I did love you. There was a lot to love."

Carlton looked at her, this woman who had pre-occupied his life and heart and mind and psyche for years, and tried to make sense of her… and _this_ … and _now_.

Juliet, Emily, Manda, Juliet, Victoria… _Juliet_ … Mr. Enough Now…

Enough now.

But the low keening moan from next door silenced whatever he might have said.

A chill raced up his spine, Victoria's eyes widened, and the instant another low and dreadful moan pierced the air, he was on his feet and running for the stairs.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet turned at the sound of Shawn's voice.

He looked forlorn. "Give a poor ex a hug?"

Maybe it was her mood about Carlton, and maybe she just needed one herself, but she opened her arms and Shawn stepped into them, hugging her hard. For a few moments she let herself remember all her good feelings about him, about them, because those good feelings had been real, and important, and she could _not_ regret what had been good.

However, the strength of the hug very quickly became more than _she_ needed, and she extricated herself to a safe distance.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Sorry I've been avoiding you. I kept chickening out."

"Of seeing me? What were you afraid of?"

Shawn shrugged. "That you'd hit me with more truth. But I have some too, Jules. One truth is that I'd take another chance if you'd give me one."

Juliet touched his arm. "I can't do that."

"I know. Gus said I should let you move on. And I will, I promise. I just… wanted to say… that I wish you had put me to the test. The real test. Trying to be who you needed me to be."

She tried to feel guilty—because he was right; she hadn't tested him the way he meant, but then again, giving ultimatums in a relationship wasn't her style. Or likely to work.

She smiled gently. "But Shawn… then you wouldn't have been you."

In contrast, he frowned again. "Tell me what changed."

"What do you mean? I told you—"

"I had Psych _before_ I knew you. I had Gus and my dad and my Lassie-taunting. I'm the same guy who wooed you and eventually won you. What changed?"

Shivering a little, and so tired, Juliet said what she'd been thinking for a long time. "I grew up."

Shawn's frown intensified. "And I didn't. That's what you're saying."

 _Well…_

 _No. No fighting, no arguing, no tension. Find another way to explain it._

"I'm five years younger than you. I had more growing up to do and the job helped with that."

He wasn't convinced. "I was right there when that was happening. If you were growing up, and still let me win you, then what changed after we moved in together?"

She had to choose her words carefully. "Actually, Shawn, you _weren't_ there. You kinda flitted in and out of the station, in and out of the cases which interested you and brought the most attention to you and Psych, but you weren't there while I was becoming who I am now."

 _Carlton was._

"And when you _were_ there, Gus was there most of the time too. You guys play off each other so well and so completely that I kinda think everyone else fades in comparison. For all your observational skills, you… missed me changing."

Maybe it _was_ really that simple, she thought. Maybe he just hadn't been paying attention.

"It's not entirely your fault. I don't want you thinking I sit around looking for ways to blame you for this not working out. It's my fault too."

Shawn was looking at his shoes, hands still in his pockets, frown still firm. "You keep saying Gus when you talk about us. Not to rhyme, but it's there all the time. Dammit, now I'm stuck."

Juliet couldn't help but chuckle. "Gus is your other half. It's just how it is. No criticism intended or implied."

 _You just need to find a girl who has her own Gusette, and then the four of you will make one lovely couple._

He sighed. "I'm letting the house go. Gus doesn't think he can swing his two-thirds of the rent. I tried to talk the landlord into letting me start a pineapple-lovers' commune in the garage but he wouldn't go for it."

She almost asked what he meant by two-thirds, but then decided he was, in his way, being realistic about his own input. "Yeah, communes aren't usually money-makers. Will you go back to apartment-hopping?"

Another shrug. "It's a skill."

"I'm sorry," Juliet said softly. "And I thank you for taking chances on me."

This surprised him. "I didn't think they were chances. I thought they were sure things."

More than a _touch_ of ego, but she knew what he meant.

"You took a chance on telling me how you felt up in Canada. You took a chance on committing to a relationship. For a guy who's always running at top speed from expectations, those were pretty big chances."

He thought this over, or seemed to. It was impossible to guess what Shawn was ever really thinking.

"Maybe," she said with a smile, "you're slowly changing too. Maybe someday you'll make a fine grown-up."

Shawn grinned. "Bite your tongue. And it won't matter, will it? It'll still be too late to get you back."

 _Yeah. It would still be too late._

Juliet stepped in for one more brief hug and a whispered 'goodbye' before walking swiftly to her car.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton darted across the wide lawn, calling to mind the lay of the property from his earlier snoopery.

 _Dodge the bush, mind the birdbath, go around the low-lying sprinkler heads..._

He ended up standing in the shadows of the back tiled patio, listening again. Glock in hand.

The sound was coming from the lower level, the basement Victoria had never seen. Another moan confirmed the directional source—while giving him chills—and he slipped along the edge of the patio toward a faintly golden rectangle which outlined a basement window.

What the _hell_ was going on down there?

Was Ted Ridgway being attacked? Was he attacking someone else?

Was that basement full of victims, or worse, parts of victims?

Was the damn place haunted?

He rejected that idea; according to his research, the house was only fifteen years old and he surely wasn't hearing the moans of the late Mrs. Ridgway in a nocturnal visit to her Teddy.

Another moan… so low and deep and _right there in his spine_.

Despite himself, he shivered.

 _Yeah. Heap big tough man scaredy-cat._

Skulking further along, he got close to the window, flush with the stone foundation, and lay on the cold ground atop the mulch. The window was open slightly, tilted out, and the gap must have created one of those sound-enhancing effects to allow the sound to carry so far and so clearly.

As he peered in through that gap above the slightly grimy glass, there came another moan.

He couldn't quite process what he was seeing… didn't understand it at first.

Then, unexpectedly, he heard a different sound, one he recognized immediately and which was completely foreign to this... tableau.

A sound which changed the game entirely.

A sound which could only be described as…

A giggle.

 _Son. Of. A. Bitch._

 _I am_ WAY _the hell too old for this crap._

He rapped sharply on the glass with the butt of his Glock, and then again.

From inside the basement, the sounds changed dramatically, but he didn't wait to see the full effects of his attention-getter. On his feet, he strode around to the side of the house and started pounding on the kitchen door.

Behind him he heard Victoria calling anxiously from her back deck, "What's going on?"

 _Nothing you want to know about_ , he thought, and kept pounding.

"Should I call 911?" she persisted, her voice half shout, half hiss.

"No," he said loudly enough for her to hear. "Go back in the house!"

He glanced to see she'd obeyed, and then the kitchen door was pulled open and he was face to face with the source of the moaning.

Or one source, anyway.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD." He flashed his badge and brushed by the man—Ted Ridgway, he presumed. "Lead the way to the basement, pal."

The elderly man made a noise much like a whimper and did as he was told, scurrying along with his cane to the mirror-lined elevator in the hallway.

"I can explain," he started.

Carlton snapped, "Save it. I want both of you in my sights."

They rode down in silence to the finished basement, a paneled room with lush carpet and bookshelves and trophies and fine art and, handily, what appeared to be a full bar. A wealthy man's lair. The elevator fit right in.

The only thing out of place was the _other_ elderly man.

The one who was nude and strapped loosely to some sort of wooden contraption in the middle of the floor.

While wearing a blonde wig and bright red lipstick.

And shivering. _All_ over.

Glancing at the purple-kimono-clad Ridgway—God forbid he should have to see what was under _that_ —Carlton looked the other man over as impartially as possible, hoping this image wouldn't be burned onto his brain.

"Are you here voluntarily?"

"I can explain," Ridgway tried again.

"Shut up. I'm asking him."

The bewigged man nodded.

"If he's Ridgway, who are you? And in the name of all that is holy, do _not_ pull ID out of any place people don't normally keep ID."

The man mumbled something about his wallet and clothes over by the flat-screen TV.

Carlton checked it out, matching the driver's license photo of Ernest Fleiss to what he could make out under the lipstick and wig.

Ted Ridgway was wringing his hands. "Officer—"

"Detective," he bit out. "Lassiter. I'm here because of complaints about the noise. What you do in the privacy of this second circle of hell is your business, but the best way to _maintain_ that privacy, Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-idiot, is to keep your damned voices down."

"I get carried away," Ernest mumbled apologetically.

"Sweet. Next time express yourself in whispers."

"Yes, sir."

With a glare to Ridgway, he added, "This is just a warning, but the next time you freak out your neighbors, you better hope you're wearing a kimono that doesn't clash with his lipstick."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He headed back to the elevator, tossing off one last warning: "And dear _God_ , close that window."

 _Geriatric whackaloon sex-fiends. Swell._

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Victoria stood in her kitchen, wringing her hands in much the same way Ridgway had, and she practically clutched at him once he was inside.

"What? What was it? Are you okay?"

Before he could answer she snaked her arms around him, sighing against his chest as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Carlton froze. He froze because it felt wrong. Alien. _Wrong_.

He could smell her hair (not peaches); he could feel her body close to his (not Juliet… hell, not even sexpot Manda), and it felt _wrong_.

There was a time, years ago, when he would have leapt at this opportunity, damn near groveled for any sign of affection or concern or… _compassion_.

Not anymore. Not from her.

Perhaps realizing she was the only one doing any hugging, Victoria finally let him go, but remained standing close.

 _As if she has a_ right _to be anywhere near me._

"What happened?" she asked again.

He moved away, putting the table between them. "Your neighbor was entertaining a friend. They were… excited about their activities. Please don't ask me to elaborate."

Her eyes—those perpetually mysterious-colored eyes—widened in comprehension. "Seriously? Ted's got a girlfriend?"

 _In a manner of speaking. Sure._

She started to laugh. "And they were getting _frisky_?"

"That's one way to look at it."

He wished _he_ hadn't had to look at it.

"I won't say more. I warned them to keep it down. If they don't," he added uncomfortably, "call 911 and report the little sex fiends to your heart's content."

"Oh, Carlton, what did you see?" She was vastly amused.

" _Nothing_ will induce me to tell you. Nothing." He started back toward the door. It was past time to leave this whole inexpressibly unfamiliar world behind.

 _Find your car, go back home._

 _Enough now._

"Wait," she said, catching his arm. "Wait, Carlton."

He looked down at her. "Thanks for the coffee and cake. It was interesting to see you again."

"Carlton." She was almost cajoling. "We're not really done talking about… what we were talking about upstairs."

Curious how detached he felt. "I think we are. I asked a question, you answered it. Now I'm going home. Have a nice life."

Victoria's grip was firm. "Implicit in my answer was a question for you."

"I didn't hear one," he said calmly. At least not one he had any interest in answering.

She sighed, stroking his arm now. "I'm asking if there's any way we can build on… what we had before."

Glancing at her hand, he kept his tone cool. "What we had before was an unsound structure comprised of shoddy building materials and which was, ultimately, doomed to collapse. _Nobody_ would build on that."

Her motions stopped, and her expression grew tense.

Carlton went on evenly, "I don't think your question—or anything about the last two evenings—has been about _us_ at all, let alone about me. I think this was about you trying to prove you could still get me to come running. Maybe since your last divorce you just wanted proof you've still got it."

She dropped her hand, her gaze now chilly.

He gave her a deliberate once-over from head to toe, and didn't miss how she flushed. "The answer to that question is yes, Victoria. You've still got it."

With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to make his point perfectly clear.

"I just don't want it anymore."

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet held out until Sunday afternoon. It wasn't easy. In fact, it was just about harder than telling Shawn she was leaving.

 _So what happened with the ex's screaming neighbor?_

Ten excruciatingly long minutes passed.

Ten.

She didn't know whether to be worried or… _worried_.

But then came the buzz.

 _Sorry, was in the shower. It turned out to be 50 Shades of Geriatrica. The old guy next door and his old boyfriend were having loud "fun_."

The first sentence struck her more forcibly than the rest of it, and not only because of the instant and wicked image of his lean naked body under a warm spray of water.

Although that was pretty intense.

The real question? Why was he in the shower at three in the afternoon?

What had he been doing?

Had he been _doing_ the Apple Crumble Bitch?

She couldn't even hold it together enough to text him back.

"You have a problem," she whispered to the empty living room, her eyes burning.

After a while, the phone buzzed again.

 _Did that blow your mind?_

"Yeah," she muttered, "but not the way you think."

Maybe the Chief had been right to suggest she make an appointment with the EAP. She _had_ to get a handle on this jealousy: it was going to eat her alive.

To Carlton, she texted: _Kinda. Sorry to interrupt_.

Yeah, like _that_ didn't sound passive-aggressive.

 _Where are you?_

 _Home._

Alone. Miserable. Missing him.

Her phone rang.

"You weren't interrupting. I just got back from my run."

Great, now she had to wonder why he took his run so late. Was he just now getting home from a weekend of debauchery?

Since she remained silent, he prompted, "Everything okay?"

"Yes."

"Because the last time I showed concern you bit my head off."

"Yes," she agreed. "Sorry."

"Juliet?" His voice was gentler. "Seriously. You okay?"

 _Damn him, damn him, damn him. He's_ supposed _to be uncaring. He's_ supposed _to be cold. He's_ supposed _to be a heartless son of a bitch. He's_ supposed _to call me O'Hara and keep me at a distance, not make Juliet sound like a caress._

"Juliet," he repeated, sounding both impatient and worried. Still kinda felt like a caress.

"Yes."

He sighed. "Okay, tell me this. Did I do something? You know I won't figure it out on my own. Just tell me."

"You didn't do anything."

Nothing but Heart-stomper.

Now he was quiet for a moment. "All right. I'm going to put my shoes on and get my keys and come pick you up. I'm taking you out for ice cream and possibly shoe-shopping, which I will hate, but which I will do for you because from the million words you're _not_ saying, I'm enough of a detective to know you need _some_ kind of therapy."

 _Oh, Carlton. You have no idea._

"Okay?"

Juliet let out a deep breath. "Okay."

"I'll be there in ten. Don't make me honk the horn."

She sat there for another three minutes trying to decide whether it was good or bad to see him at all when she was in this totally screwed-up frame of mind.

Then she spent the next seven minutes running around making herself presentable because _hello: ice cream?_ And _hell_ _yeah:_ _Carlton_.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

 _You're an idiot_ , he told himself as he drove over to Juliet's place.

At a stop light, he shoved one hand through his hair, feeling untidy and unkempt and _who cared_ because _he was getting to see her_.

Figuring out why she was upset was second, and was that messed up?

 _Yes, Lassiter. Figuring out why she's upset should be first priority. Seeing her to satisfy your own stupid longings (shut up, Mr. Enough Now) is just selfish and base._

Especially because she was probably upset about _Spencer_.

On the other hand, he reasoned, if she was upset about Spencer then maybe she _wasn't_ getting back together with him.

That was good, right?

 _Yes, and not just for_ you _, you selfish jerk._

All he knew was this: Mr. Enough Now was falling down on the job.

Emily cut him loose because of Juliet. Manda was a deviant. Victoria would have been Nightmare Road, and while he did take some pride in being asked for another chance by the ex who'd put him through the wringer, he took _more_ pride in having walked away unscathed.

Which left him where he started: bonkers for Juliet, his partner and friend and Number One Can't-Have. Seeking her _out_ , no less.

 _Idiot._

When he pulled in, Juliet was already at the bottom of the stairs, flushed and unbearably pretty and smiling as if she were happy to be with _him_.

He had time to tell Mr. Enough Now to get stuffed before she climbed in and buckled up.

"Cold Stone Creamery?" she asked hopefully.

"Anything you want."

 _Anything._

His phone rang.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The sunshine felt wonderful, and her Cookie Doughn't You Want Some was pure decadence, and Carlton looked just as yummy sitting there all Sunday-undone with his Berry Berry Berry Good.

Juliet was momentarily extremely happy.

She had been unhappy earlier in the car, when Carlton dug his ringing phone out of his pocket, frowned at the display, muttered "yeah, _that's_ going to voicemail" and started driving without any other word of explanation.

One of his women, she knew. Maybe Manda again. Maybe the Heart-Stomper. Maybe some other chick she didn't even know _existed_. After all, he'd certainly proved he was good at keeping secrets this summer.

Might as well ruin a good thing, she thought.

"So what's the full story on—what'd you call it? Fifty shades of geriatrica?"

He closed his vivid blue eyes briefly as if in pain. "O'Hara, I'm only going to tell you the following things. First, two seventy-something old men. Second, purple kimono. Third, blonde wig, red lipstick and nothing else. Fourth, some kind of wheel of… Godforsaken misfortune. Fifth, I'm calling my therapist first thing tomorrow morning."

She laughed, and his smile was wry, and she ate more ice cream to stop herself from asking about HER.

"You gonna tell me what had you down?" he asked carefully. "Or should I leave it alone?"

"I'm just tired," she lied. "I worked the first half of Bateman's shift this morning because he had sick kid trouble."

Carlton frowned, but said nothing.

"I'm okay," she assured him. "It's okay to be tired now and then. Don't worry. I'm a tough girl."

"You are." He ate some of the berries and then set his spoon down. "Look, my offer of the spare room stands. If you don't want to do that because you think it'd be an imposition, you know better. If you just think it'd be weird and creepy to stay in my place, say so. Either _way_ , say so. Moving's expensive. You don't need to be shelling out for a hotel room on top of that."

"It's not creepy or weird," she protested. "I've fallen asleep on your actual _person_ during stakeouts. It's not that."

He nodded. "Fair enough. Pride, then?"

"No… well." She put her own ice cream down. "Maybe. But not what you think."

"Oh, _do_ tell me what I think," he suggested in somewhat of a dangerous tone.

Juliet grinned. "Don't use that voice on me, buster." She liked how an immediate smirk lit his eyes. "Okay, I knew I was ending my relationship but the night it happened, it was kind of an impulse. I hadn't prepared for it. Nothing set aside, no real plan. So… I feel like I need to suck it up and lie in the bed I made. Does that make sense?"

After a moment, he resumed eating his ice cream. "Yes, but ultimately you're trying to prove a point to yourself by way of stabbing your bank account in the heart."

That stung a little, but he wasn't wrong, was he? And if she was going to stick with this lie, instead of _I can't be trusted alone with you in your home_ , then she had to accept it. "It's not so bad. The hotel manager gave me a great discount. How did your visits with Victoria go?"

 _Oh, you stupid girl._

Carlton's dark brows knitted together.

"Sorry," she said quickly. "Not my business."

But he answered as if she hadn't spoken. "It was weird. She was too nice. It's entirely possible she's dying."

He said it so blandly that it took her a moment to understand he was joking, and when she started laughing, he smirked again and asked her what kind of apartment she hoped to find.

It did not escape her that he never really answered the question.

Later, he offered to make good on his shoe-shopping offer. She almost said yes just to prolong their time together, but it was no good to torture him. Or herself.

Getting back in his car, and wondering if she was a masochist, she asked another question.

"What did you mean when you said Emily broke up with you because of me?"

Carlton gave her the side-eye, starting the engine and looking suddenly remote.

"Sorry. I keep crossing lines, don't I." Misery washed over her.

He shook his head. "You took her by surprise."

"I did?"

 _She sure took_ me _by surprise._

He glanced at her again before pulling out into the street. "She was uncomfortable with my partner being a beautiful woman."

Was he _blushing_?

Was _she_?

"But I… but…"

"You don't know your power," he said dryly, and the faint red tinge was gone.

"I'm sorry, I guess?"

( _Not really_.)

This amused him. "Don't worry about it. Sure you don't want to look at even so much as flip-flops?"

"No, I'm good." But once more, she felt as if he'd evaded giving a real answer.

His cell rang again, and this time when he pulled it from his pocket, she glimpsed the name on the screen: Emily.

 _Emily_.

Guess she wasn't "uncomfortable" any more.

Carlton, she noted, did not frown this time. His expression remained neutral as he returned the phone to his pocket, and it took every bit of personal power she had to pretend everything was peachy until he dropped her at her place.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

He waited until he was home to listen to Emily's voicemails, which were simple requests that he give her a call when he had a chance.

Curiosity won out.

"Carlton, hello," she said warmly. "Thanks for calling me back."

"No problem. Hope everything's all right."

"It is… but… well, let me just get to the point. I've been thinking that I may have acted too hastily."

He felt his eyebrows shooting up. "As I recall, your alarm bells were going off."

"They were," she admitted, "but I've come to understand your reluctance to tell me about your partner. After all, I did react the way you thought I would, and I had to ask myself what I was insecure about. We had a pleasant time getting to know each other, didn't we?"

"It was very _nice_ ," he said, glad she couldn't see the accompanying eyeroll.

"Then… would you be amenable to trying again?"

Three women in one weekend. Try again? Right.

"Emily, I'm going to ask you a personal question, and I hope you won't take offense."

"Um… okay?"

"Is it true you take men to that coffee shop only when you're dumping them?"

"I—excuse me?"

"It's just that I'm curious about where you'd take a guy to dump him the _second_ time."

" _What_?"

"Because as long as I work in this town, unless _she_ wants to change the situation, my partner is _going_ to be the incredibly lovely Juliet O'Hara."

"Carlton!" she snapped.

"The answer's no, Emily. Thanks for asking, but _my_ alarm bells are telling me _you're_ a bad risk. Goodbye." He pressed the 'end call' button and tossed the phone aside.

Mr. Enough Now was shouting, "WHAT THE _HELL_?"

Carlton told him to take a hike.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

He didn't say anything about Victoria. He didn't say anything about Manda. He didn't say anything about Emily. He didn't say anything about any other women.

They worked, and Juliet wondered.

They worked more, and she wondered more, and each day that he never said a word about his personal life was a day she started to go slightly more insane.

She couldn't look at him without wanting to kiss him. And maybe lick him a little.

(She couldn't blame _any_ of the women for trying to get him back: on the dessert cart of life, one slice of Carlton would never be enough.)

She seriously considered simply _telling_ him she was crazy-ass in love with him.

She also seriously considered taking him up on the offer of the spare room.

Then she could accidentally go into _his_ room one night—accidentally naked—and see what accidentally happened.

Because something would _definitely_ happen.

Talking to an EAP shrink was looking more and more like a viable plan.

They were having lunch at Benita's on Friday after rounding up a drug dealer when Shawn and Gus came in. Juliet knew it really was a coincidence, because she could always spot Shawn's Fake!Surprise Face and Gus's wasn't _half_ that good; both of them seemed legitimately unprepared for this encounter.

Carlton, typically, went quiet and tense.

Shawn tossed off a few jokes about the cutlery not getting along with the salt and pepper shakers and segued into a harmonization with Gus on a brief Ode To Napkins. They were funny. They were usually funny.

Juliet asked how Henry was doing, not because she wanted to prolong the conversation but because she hadn't seen Henry in a while and he was a good excuse to make nice and "get back to normal" with her ex. Whatever normal would be for Shawn.

But when Shawn sat down in one of the empty chairs to answer, Carlton rose smoothly and said he was going to the restroom.

This left Juliet with a rather odd sensation.

It wasn't unusual for Carlton to remove himself from a Shawn/Gus show, but it _was_ unusual for him to do it without a snark of some kind (although usually it was in response to a dig from Shawn).

This felt… _wrong_.

Gus nudged Shawn to move it along. They'd run out of the Tornado Tacos soon, he reminded him, and once the Tornado Tacos were gone, the Supa-Cinna-Pillas would soon follow.

Focus on food restored, Shawn got up, and after Gus bent to give Juliet a quick hug, he did too. His was longer, and he murmured "miss you, babe" in her ear.

They were at the counter ordering when Carlton returned to his seat, but he was disinclined to chat. Juliet wondered if he were merely uncomfortable on her behalf—but if he were, he surely wouldn't have abandoned her.

Either way, she didn't like it.

She didn't like one freaking thing about this entire damned summer.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Carlton was staring at his red-lit clock, watching the numbers change, one after the other, ad nauseum.

He'd _tried_ actually closing his eyes and sleeping, but that hadn't worked.

Seeing Spencer hugging Juliet again, seeing him whisper something in her ear, _seeing her not push him away or look uncomfortable_ : that all sucked flaming disease-ridden porcupines.

Maybe they were taking it slowly; maybe it was a work in progress, but it sure looked like Juliet was at least _thinking_ about getting back on the Spencer Crazy Train.

He should have stayed at the table in case he was wrong. In case she wanted moral support. But the moment Spencer sat down as if he owned the place… well, Carlton had to go off and pull himself together. It wasn't rational to want to punch a man for merely sitting down.

It wasn't exactly rational to want to punch him _twice_ for hugging Juliet, either.

Twelve minutes past two.

He sighed.

Thirteen minutes past two.

He rolled onto his back. Sighed again.

Fourteen minutes past two.

The phone rang, startling the beejeezus out of him, and he snatched it up. Unfamiliar number. "What?"

"Um… Detective Lassiter?"

"Yes. What?"

"I'm sorry to bother you. My name is Rebecca Morrell. I'm the manager of the Ocean Gardens Hotel near the police station?"

 _Where Juliet currently resided._

"What happened?" he asked sharply, sitting up.

"I'm calling on behalf of Juliet O'Hara, your partner?"

"I know who she is," he snapped. "What happened?"

She finally seemed to register his impatience. "Everything's under control. She agreed to let me call you because I insisted on calling someone—"

"For the love of God, woman, _what happened_?"

"She intervened in a dispute by the pool and a guest hit her with a bottle. She _says_ she's okay but I insisted on calling someone. I almost had to threaten to throw her out to get her to agree. So she—"

He cut her off. "You can stop talking. I will be there in under fifteen minutes."

 **. . . . . .**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

 _[A/N: thanks to Pothangfanfic for the "fifty shades" inspiration, and to PsychLassieFan4Ever for the "one slice of Carlton" line. I think one, possssibly two more chapters to this, but I'm going out of town for a few days so you'll have to waaaait for ittttt.]_


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

The night manager who'd called him was at the desk when he strode in. Flashing his badge to get her full attention, he barked, "Lassiter, SBPD. Where's Detective O'Hara?"

"She's in her room. She—"

"Debrief me, and make it fast. Is she okay?"

"She says she is—"

"I don't care what she _says_. Is she _okay_? You have eyes. Presumably you've seen her."

The woman stood straight. Her tone was crisp. "Yes, I have eyes, and if I may remind you, sir, _I_ called _you_."

Carlton took a breath. Would Juliet think he was being rude? Yes.

Very slowly, he thanked her and repeated his question.

Mollified, Rebecca whatever-her-name-was said, "It appears to me she'll have a bruise by morning, and there's a small cut. She refused any treatment but she seemed shaken and after the cruiser took Scotty away, I insisted she let me call someone."

"Scotty being the bottle-tosser? What's his story? Isn't your pool normally closed at this hour?"

"Of course. He's a former employee who apparently made a copy of his pool room key. He came in drunk and broken-hearted. He's only twenty-one, and he—"

"Do not," he said brusquely, "follow that with a statement about how he's just a good kid having a bad night. What room is Juliet in?"

"729. It's around the corner and down the—"

But he was already racing out the door.

He found the wing with her room, and not particularly caring whether he disturbed other guests, rapped sharply on the door.

Juliet opened it right away, turning in the same moment and going back to sit on the edge of the bed. "You didn't have to come."

Carlton let the door swing shut behind him. The room looked lived in, but in a Juliet-gentled way. Touches of her—the scent of her—were everywhere. A pale green robe draped over the arm of the sofa, a paperback novel on the floor by the bed. Cast-off heels by the closet alcove.

Sitting cross-legged, wearing a Miami Dolphins windbreaker over a tee and sweats, Juliet was both appealing and worn-out. She pulled one of the pillows into her lap to hug, and gave him a somewhat baleful look.

He approached, intent on investigating the bruise already visible on her jaw, but she jerked back.

"I'm fine."

"Says you," he retorted, and reached out again.

Juliet again jerked back. "I'm _fine_ , Carlton. You didn't have to come."

He grabbed the chair from the small desk and put it in front of her. "Yes I did, and let me _see_ you already."

But as he sat, she scrambled across the mattress away from him.

Impatiently, he caught her arm and held her firm. "Juliet, stop it." He dragged her back to the edge of the bed. " _Stop_ it."

Oh, those dark blue eyes were mutinous, but this time she let him touch her bruised skin (smooth skin, cool and soft). The cut Rebecca mentioned was about half an inch long and no longer bleeding. He spotted an ice bucket and washcloth on the end table. _Good girl._

"How much does it hurt?"

"It's fine. Go home."

Carlton scowled at her. "Knock it off. I get a call about my partner being injured, I'm there. Suck it up."

Her glare lessened… somewhat.

"Why are you taking it out on me anyway?" He hoped he sounded reasonable.

Didn't seem to matter; she was still cross. "Because I wasn't moonlighting, and I'm not overworked, and I don't want to be fussed over."

"Never said you were moonlighting, I only wanted you not to overextend yourself during a stressful time, and I'm not exactly a fuss-over-anyone kind of guy. What happened?"

Juliet hugged the pillow once more. "The manager called to see if I'd go check out a disturbance at the pool. I went down there and this kid—Scotty, she called him—was drunk and singing and trying to slow-dance with himself on the diving board."

She fell silent.

Carlton reached over for the ice bucket and washcloth, wrapping a few cubes in the fabric. His intent was to hold it to her skin, but she took it out of his hand and did it herself, obviously irritated again.

"I told you I'm fine." Her tone was snappish.

He sighed. "Yeah, yeah. So what about the dancing boy?"

"He was suffering from unrequited love," she muttered.

 _I can relate._

"That and having lost his job." She tossed the washcloth back into the ice bucket.

Carlton looked at her steadily until she met his gaze, and damn if she wasn't still baleful. "And?"

"And I talked to him and nagged at him until he came off the board but then he lost it and threw his bottle at me and I took him down and that's _all_ , Carlton. It's no big deal. You can go back _home_."

This torked him off. "What the hell is your problem? Nobody _made_ me come here. I _wanted_ to."

"I'm surprised," she mumbled into the pillow.

"You're _surprised_?" He got up abruptly. "Suck it."

Juliet's eyes widened. " _Hey_ —"

"That's what Spencer would say, isn't it? And everything _he_ says is okay with you, _right_?"

 _(Whispered in her ear during another damned hug.)_

"I don't care what _he_ says. I care what _you_ say."

"Yeah? Well, I care what _you_ say too, and hearing _that_ crap come out of your mouth isn't on my top ten list." He stood against the wall, stung and angry.

"It's not crap!" Her dark blue glare was back, and it was fierce. "I'm just surprised you could clear your social calendar enough on a Friday night to spare _me_ any time."

"My _social_ calendar?" he sputtered. " _Spare_ you the time?"

"Well? Seems like you've been juggling women left and right for the last few months and I'd hate to think I might have interrupted any _crucial_ developments."

Carlton stared at this unfamiliar creature before him. She spoke English and sounded like Juliet, and she certainly looked like his beautiful Juliet, but she was an angry stranger to him tonight.

"What in the _hell_ are you talking—"

She cut him off. "Go home already! Go home to the woman du jour. I don't need you here!"

Still he stared at her.

Finally, a purely male part of him stepped up to explain it to him clearly and patiently.

 _Lassiter_ , he was told, _this woman is jealous_.

 _Yes, you heard that right. Stay with me now. Jealous._

 _She is jealous because you've been seeing other women._

 _Women who aren't her._

 _Further_ , the explanation continued, _this would imply she is interested in you for herself_.

Which, he instantly concluded, was beyond ridiculously ludicrously stupendously unthinkably _stupid_.

"Do you even know who you're talking to?" He knew he sounded incredulous.

"Yeah, I know who I'm talking to," she shot back bitterly. "Casanova Lassiter."

It was in her eyes, in her posture, in her tone.

She _was_ jealous.

And Carlton found that completely and utterly _infuriating_.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

 _You have to get hold of yourself_.

But Juliet was tired and her jaw hurt and he just looked so damned good all fresh-out-of-bed rumpled and why in the hell couldn't he want her instead of that platoon of other women?

 _Okay, valid question, but you have to work with this man. You keep pushing his buttons, Monday's going to be really really awkward_.

 _Incredibly_ awkward, because right now the look in his crystal blue eyes was more than a bit frightening.

Juliet gathered herself. Whatever he was about to say, she probably deserved.

But she was still Extremely Vexed.

Carlton ground out, "Have you ever seen the movie _Love Actually_?"

 _Okay, wasn't expecting that_.

"Remember the part where what's-his-name goes to Juliet's house—because of course her name had to be freaking _Juliet_ —and stands in the street and holds up all those cards to tell her how he feels about her?"

Juliet was immobilized by his tone, his anger, and _damn_ , those intensely blue eyes.

"You know the difference between you and her? _She_ needs to eat a damned sandwich." He glared at her. " _You're_ perfect."

 _Oh… what? … oh! … wait… recalculating… recalculating…._

"You know the difference between me and _him_? He's a lazy-ass slacker. He said he'd love her until she was a desiccated mummy, but I'm the sorry son of a bitch who's going to love _you_ until you're nothing but a handful of dust."

She was stunned, floored, gobsmacked and nothing but goosebumps.

 _RECALCULATING!_

Carlton pressed on, "This whole summer. This whole stinking _summer_ has been my 'enough now.' Trying to give up the fantasy. Trying to figure out how to have something else— _someone_ else—since I was never in a million years ever going to have a shot with _you_. So you don't get to sit there insulting me, acting like you're jealous, dammit. You don't get to do that. Especially not if you're just on the rebound from Spencer. You understand?"

Her heart was beating frantically, trying to leap out of her chest and possibly into his.

"Wait—"

"No. Enough waiting. I'm done waiting. That's the _point_ , Juliet. That's the damned point: no more damned waiting!"

She wailed, "I'm _not_ on the rebound!"

"Doesn't look that way to me." Ice. All ice.

"I left him months ago! I left him the same weekend I kissed you. It just took me a while to get around to moving out."

"Yeah? You sure about that? I saw you with him," he said flatly. "I drove by the station last Friday night. You looked pretty comfortable with your arms wrapped around each other."

 _Oh no… no no no, not now, not that._

"And you were pretty chummy in the restaurant today. Not much of a breakup to the naked eye, O'Hara."

She felt frantic. This wasn't happening, but it was happening, and he was too close to the door—and incidentally a known flight risk—and there was too much to say. "I didn't even see it coming. I didn't want it. I didn't need it. And the hug last weekend—he _asked_ for that. I couldn't say no but I got out of it as fast as I could."

Carlton's eyes were mesmerizing: deep blue and angry… and uncertain.

"If _you_ ask for a hug," she whispered, "I will _never_ let you go."

Instantly he bit out, "I am not asking you for one damned thing."

"Then I _give_ it." She stood up and rushed at him and he didn't move back but neither did he return her embrace. His arms hung at his sides and his fists were clenched and he was breathing rapidly but he wasn't hugging her back.

It was like trying to maintain balance on an icy patch. _Must stay upright. Must get to the other side. Must not lose this._

"Carlton," she pleaded.

He shook his head, all systems locking down.

She _was_ losing him.

Juliet realized how long he must have had these feelings. How he had been so sure—was still sure—that they were for nothing.

He didn't think he could trust her with his heart, not now.

She whispered, "Please." She grasped his hands and brought them up to her lips for a kiss.

And in those blue, blue, tell-all eyes… she detected a trace of heat, a glittering glimpse of hope… and desire.

Suddenly she wanted to see that look in his eyes sometime when he was on top of her, in bed, driving into her, and overwhelming _want_ for him shocked her into action.

Linking her arms behind his neck, Juliet pulled at him, dragging him closer as she backed up, so that when she fell onto the bed he was unable to break his own fall. His warm weight on her was delicious.

His gaze was now half-surprised, half-angry … but only briefly, as she pulled at him again, this time to drag his mouth down to meet hers.

The kiss was instantly searing, hot and insistent. _Branding_.

Just like the first time. Just like every fantasy. Just like Carlton.

But he pulled back before she could even think 'don't stop.'

He was tense. Not cold—but tense. "You seem pretty sure of yourself."

She tried to ease him, while simultaneously pressing up against his lean body. "I'm sure I want you."

"Wanting," he growled, "isn't the important thing."

Juliet got his meaning: desire alone could be fleeting. Keeping her arms locked around his neck, she said, "Let me tell you about _my_ summer. While you were out boinking every woman in Santa Barbara—"

Carlton reared as far back as her grip would allow. "Son of a bitch! I was _not_ boinking every woman in Santa Barbara! It was one time with Manda, nothing ever happened with Emily, and if Victoria had tried anything—"

She interrupted hotly, "You listen to me, Carlton Lassiter. If that woman left one mark on _your_ body, I guarantee no one will _ever_ find _hers_."

For a moment—just one, but it was precious—he smiled, but then his anger came back. "And what's it to you anyway? Have you been celibate since the night we kissed?"

A stab of pain—for the pain she'd caused him—made her falter.

He tried to roll off of her but she tightened her grip. "Carlton, _please_. Just listen."

Another growl, and he most definitely pressed back when she arched against him. "No! Dammit, I can't listen and be on top of you at the same time."

"Learn," she insisted. "It's where I want you to be anyway. Why are you still so pissed off?"

"Because you're pissing me off," he snapped. "I don't have any reason to think this is real. You've been attached to Spencer for way too long to just waltz out of that and over to me." With a greater effort, he broke free of her grip and sat up on the edge of the bed, disheveled and gorgeous and _locking down_.

Juliet sat cross-legged next to him, casting off her windbreaker and tossing it to the floor. His gaze raked her bare arms and it felt incredibly erotic.

 _Do. Not. Screw. This. Up._

"Listen to me. While you were trying to figure how to…"—it seemed so self-centered to say it—"…how to get over me, I was busy accepting that my relationship with Shawn was always doomed, and furthermore, the man I really wanted had been there the whole time. You."

 _Keep talking. Keep talking. Say all the words. Keep him here._

"You," she repeated. "My best friend and most excellent partner. Good and bad, better or worse, all of it. You, with your big blue eyes and your wonderful hands and God, I even love the way you _smell_ and the way you look at me when I bring you your first cup of coffee for the day. You. Carlton. Please."

He was looking at the floor, hands clasped loosely in his lap. Juliet reached over and ran her fingers through his soft black and silver hair, and he sighed heavily.

"Seeing you having a life with those other women… without _me_ … that just cemented everything into place."

"Your backup plan falling apart," he suggested, bitterness in each syllable.

"No!" She tugged on a lock of his hair and then leaned in to kiss his face, his jaw, wanting desperately to kiss him harder, more intimately, and _all over_. "So it took me longer than you, okay?"

He rolled his eyes.

"I've been so jealous I couldn't even recognize myself. I can't even begin to tell you how much I loathe those women. All of them. Victoria the most. No… Manda. Because Manda got you into bed, and I didn't."

Carlton rubbed his temples. "I am having a catacylsmic aneurysm."

"No you're not." She leaned in and kissed the temple he'd just rubbed, breathing in the scent of his warm skin. "I'm here now. I'm here forever, Carlton."

"Don't make promises." Still harsh. "Don't you dare promise me one thing."

"It's not a promise. It's a fact."

He turned his head and looked at her, blue eyes ablaze. "Here's a _fact_."

With that he pushed her back onto the bed, climbing on top of her, covering her body again fully with his. She barely had time to register the sensory pleasure of this pressure before he was kissing her again, his tongue invading her mouth and his hands tugging at her sweats, jerking them down.

She didn't try to speak—she certainly wasn't going to protest—as he yanked the sweats down over her hips, rising up over her only long enough to get her panties out of the way as well.

His fierce kisses did not abate. His hand moved between her legs and she struggled only to remove the impediment of clothing completely. His tongue battled hers and his fingers stroked her insistently and her orgasm was fast and hard.

It had been building for weeks, after all.

Carlton drew back to get his own pants unzipped and off and then he was inside her, with her legs locked around his hips as he thrust again and again until she was gone, just gone.

All his.

And after he was gone too, he collapsed on her heaving body, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder.

She had time to think—with happiness blazing up inside her— _we are finally here_.

But then he rolled off her, sat up on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands.

"Sorry," he said raggedly. "I'm sorry."

 **. . . . .**

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	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN**

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 **. . . .**

 _M below. Fair warning for the smut-fearing!_

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 **. . . .**

Juliet was at a loss.

Carlton was still sitting on the edge of the bed, still had his head in his hands, still wouldn't talk to her.

"What are you sorry for?" She'd already asked three times.

Finally he glanced back at her, his gaze briefly on her uncovered nether regions, and while she knew she blushed, she would not hide herself from Carlton, not any more.

The words came at long last, full of self-recrimination. "You deserved better."

"Than _what_?"

"Than me acting like an animal," he said harshly.

Ahhh… no flowers, no candlelight. He was a romantic, under that bluster and ire. She couldn't have begun to guess where his pants were, his shirt was rumpled just like his black and silver hair, he was completely sexy to her but all _he_ could see was the lack of romance for their first time.

But in her view, it was _only_ the first time.

"I thought you were acting like a man who wanted me, and in case you weren't paying attention, I loved every minute of it. That—exactly that fast, exactly that hard—was what we both _needed_." She was _still_ thrumming through the aftershocks.

He scrubbed at his face, as if he hoped to wake up from this situation.

Juliet hoped he _never_ woke up. "Carlton."

Abruptly: "Why did you kiss me?"

"When?"

"After the game."

She answered honestly. "I wanted to."

"And when did you decide you wanted me? Was it _after_ you found out about Emily?"

Oh, her doubting Carlton. But she couldn't hold that against him; her behavior must have seemed erratic over the summer.

"No. It was long before Emily. Emily and Manda only amped it up."

Surprised, he turned to see her again. "You sure?"

Juliet smiled. "I wanted you before I kissed you. I just didn't fully understand how _much_ until that night."

"You don't think this could all be about easing yourself away from Spencer?"

"I know it's not about easing away from him." Giving him a long, considering once-over, she sat up and pulled off her tee, following that action with undoing her bra and tossing it over the side of the bed ( _so that's where his pants went_ , she thought absently). "Now are you going to come back here and go all animal on me again, or are we going to keep putting off the inevitable?"

"Juliet," he managed, gaze not-so-briefly on her bare breasts. "You deserved better. I was more angry than anything else."

She lay back on the pillows, drawing one knee up provocatively. "I was angry too. But given our ages and relative good health, I expect that was only the first of about fourteen million times we're going to make love, so you need to get over it, okay?"

His blue eyes went wide… and then darker with desire. "You're killing me."

"Not yet I'm not." She grinned, and trailed one finger down her abdomen. "Please come closer. Preferably without that shirt on."

He swallowed, but persisted, "Do you at least _get_ why I'm…"

"Skeptical?"

"Yeah. Skeptical."

"Putting aside the implied insult, which is that I must be crazy or delusional to care about you?"

He was affronted. "I'm not saying that. I'm just asking if you're sure you really want me. _Me_. Of all the better guys you could have."

"So I'm lowering my standards for you?" She wasn't sure why she was baiting him. She just needed him to get this out of his system.

"I didn't say that," he snapped. "You know what I mean."

"Yes. You think you're not worthy of me. You can hardly see to the top of the pedestal you put me on. You're an idiot."

Again she'd startled him, and privately enjoyed the widening of his so-blue eyes.

"I'm an ordinary woman, Carlton. You've seen me drool on myself when I fall asleep during stakeouts. You know I can't have too much fried food or my stomach goes all wonky. And now you know I can become totally crazy with jealousy when another female gets too close to you. I'm just a _woman_."

" _Just_ ," he scoffed, but still had more. "If you felt this way about me all along, then why did you refuse the offer of my spare room?"

She felt her cheeks warming.

One of his dark eyebrows arched upward.

"I couldn't trust myself."

"Come again?" It _almost_ sounded sly.

"I'm sorry; did I mumble? I was afraid I'd give myself away, you big dummy." She glared at him. "Plus I didn't want to share the bathroom with your bimbos."

Carlton scowled. "Shut it."

"As if. What made you watch _Love Actually_? I didn't think that was your kind of movie."

"Couldn't reach the remote to turn it off." He rubbed his face again. "This is insane."

"I agree. You're half-naked, I'm all naked, you love me, I love you, you've been inside me once already and I want you there again, and yet there's all this empty space between us. Why?"

He flushed—with arousal, she hoped—and yet remained rooted to his spot on the edge of the bed.

Juliet took action.

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

His eyes were closed when she started to move, and so he only felt her drape her warm soft nude self against his back and slide her arms around his middle.

For a minute she just hugged him, but then started tugging at his shirt, the last barrier of clothing between them.

Carlton could not resist. He raised his arms to help her get the shirt off, and then she pressed to him again, her breasts a tantalizing pressure against his bare back.

With her lips nuzzling his shoulder, she allowed her hands to go wandering, and he didn't stop her. Over his stomach, across his chest… pausing to play in the curls of hair there and then down to brush her fingertips along his thighs.

He watched, neither helping nor hindering. This was only a dream, right?

Then, to his fundamental astonishment, she encircled him with one warm sure hand, stroking his flesh, causing immediate spasms of pleasure to shoot through his entire system.

Her breath quickened in his ear, as if it aroused her to arouse him, and that aroused him more. He throbbed in her grasp, and she sighed anxiously.

He could feel the heat of her body, a pulsing, enticing heat, and watched her hand manipulate his hardening flesh. He may have sighed out her name.

This was Juliet. His Juliet. Touching him. Stroking _him_.

There was no possible _real_ world where this could be true.

She'd said she loved him. He heard it with his own ears, moments ago.

Mr. Enough Now—who'd been right there with him when she said it—was tellingly silent for the first time in a long time.

Slowly he turned his head, and Juliet met his kiss with passion, her tongue quick and heated and delicious.

Her hand continued stroking him, and he let this wondrous thing happen, and he went on kissing her, exploring her delightful mouth, until she let out another needful sigh which commanded him wordlessly to do more. To do _her_.

Turning into her arms, he maneuvered them both to lie flat on the bed, and when her lovely rosy body was fully exposed to him again, he slid down to apply his mouth and tongue to the damp heat between her thighs.

To taste her was heaven; to hear her gasps and moans was even better. She _was_ his.

Once he started he couldn't stop—her pleasure was his—and it was only when he was pushing her toward a third orgasm that she begged for him— _please Carlton, please, now_ —and he had to obey, not just her plea but his body's overwhelming need to claim her—to sink into her silky heat repeatedly as he looked into those dark blue eyes and saw her love and desire and acceptance.

"Yes," she sighed with each thrust, with each push-back she gave him.

"Yes," he answered, but speech became impossible when the sensations took over all rational expression.

Juliet clung to him and he clung to her, and the waves went on forever.

 **. . . . .**

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Stroking his chest idly, her head resting on Carlton's shoulder, Juliet decided she felt better than she ever had before. In her whole life, even.

Her jaw ached from the bottle-throwing incident, she was achy… elsewhere… from rather vigorous lovemaking, she was thirsty and desperately needed a shower, and come to think of it her stomach was growling too.

But _this_ … she smiled. This was _perfect_.

Carlton was breathing evenly, but she knew he wasn't asleep.

He was so _warm_. From head to toe, he was all lean energy and _heat_. She curled up closer to him and heard him sigh.

"Hey. Do you believe this now?" she asked gently.

"Hmmm." He was quiet for a few seconds. "Yes. I believe this now. Do you?" It was a fair question, but before she could answer, he turned to kiss her forehead and added, "Why were you so royally pissed off when I showed up?"

"Oh… um. Well."

He tilted her chin so he could see her face, and she didn't miss the expectant smirk curving his lips. "Spill it, O'Hara."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. I saw Emily's name on your phone last weekend and I knew you called her when you got home and probably let her talk you into starting over. Between her and that neck-sucking Manda and the apple crumble succubus and all the things you _weren't_ saying, and then that drunk kid tonight crying about the girl who didn't love him back—whose name was _Carly_ , by the way, which I know because he kept wailing it out—I had myself in a fine state of discontentment."

Carlton's gaze was impressively puzzled. "The apple crumble… _succubus_?"

Juliet thumped his chest lightly. "Your heart-stomping ex! Gaaah, I hate that woman. She wanted you back, didn't she. Admit it."

He grinned. "She did. I smacked her down. Same for Emily."

"Don't gloat." But despite the last few hours of happy proof of his love for _her_ —not them—she was still inexpressibly relieved. "What was the deal with Manda and—was it a church pew?"

"Just one of the many places she was arrested for public indecency," he muttered.

" _You_ dated a woman who was arrested for—"

"I didn't know it until it was too late! I let my guard down. I didn't run her priors soon enough. Trying to get over you was screwing with my standards."

She couldn't help it; she laughed until his blue glare silenced her. Mostly.

Smoothly, he turned the tables. "So what about you and Huggy-bear Spencer? You sure I have nothing to worry about?"

Juliet patted his chest this time. "Nothing. Never again. I'm yours, Carlton."

"I like the way that sounds." He kissed her, pulling her to lie on top of him, and as the kiss deepened, she felt her heart expanding, as if it might sprout its own wings and carry them both away.

"And you're mine," she said against his lips, nibbling at him and ready to forego the shower and the water and the food and everything else just to remain this close to him a little longer.

"Apparently true." He allowed the nibbles, anchoring her to him by the hips. "So are you finally going to accept my temporary-housing offer?"

"Uh, not if I have to stay in the _spare_ room."

Carlton grinned. "I suppose you might be able to squeeze into my bed. Do you snore, kick, steal the covers or talk in your sleep?"

"I only snore when I'm congested, I don't kick, the covers will never even _stay_ on the bed when we're both naked, and anything I say can be used against me in the court of Carlton. But it'll all be about you, my darling, so it'll all be good."

Looking into his eyes, seeing his smile, feeling his relaxation and acceptance, Juliet wondered if this was her preview of heaven.

But his smoky voice was her utter undoing. "I love you, Juliet." He said it quietly, gently, sincerely. "I love you."

For all the cockiness she'd been feeling, she was shocked to find tears in her eyes. One slipped out and onto her cheek, and Carlton brushed it away, kissing the damp spot left behind.

"I don't know how we're going to do this. Between the Chief and Spencer and our partnership itself—all the ways you're a hell of a lot nicer than I am—I don't know how smoothly this will go. But if you really love me back, I guess there's nothing we can't do together."

Juliet framed his lean face with her trembling hands, her heart pressed to his. "I really love you back. And we _can_ do everything together. We _will_."

 **. . . . .**

 **. . . .**

Juliet's overstuffed chair, which was now _their_ chair, fit perfectly in Carlton's living room. He was always comfortable curled up there with her.

"What's the movie tonight?" He had the remote ready as she settled in next to him, one leg draped over his.

" _Love Actually_ ," she suggested.

Carlton smiled and did not argue. When they were home, he seldom had any reason to argue with her about anything.

Of course they _did_ argue—about politics, the thermostat, which way to put the knives in the drawer and sometimes even about toilet paper placement (he said over the top, she said it didn't matter as long as there _was_ toilet paper)—but it was usually for fun, and besides, any excuse for make-up sex would do.

Once they had a protracted, twenty-minute argument about paper vs. plastic vs. canvas re-usable bags until she finally got his stuck zipper undone and they could get to the making-up part.

At the end of their fateful summer, Juliet had moved out of the hotel and into his apartment, and although they talked about getting a larger place to share, mostly they were too busy being _together_ to care about their immediate surroundings.

They kept it quiet as long as they could, coming clean to Chief Vick only after Dobson asked why they were sharing a ride so often. She took it well enough, granting them leeway to continue with their partnership provided they behaved on _every_ level. (" _That means no…_ entanglements _at work, Detectives, as well as leaving your personal issues at home. Do not make me regret this_.")

So far, except for a hot little incident in the supply closet, so good.

Carlton still marveled that Juliet was his. That she seemed to be happy about it.

Christmas had come and gone, New Year's had come and gone, and Juliet _still_ seemed happy to be with him.

Mr. Enough Now had apparently left town. Carlton bore him no ill will; after all, he'd helped prove that no other woman could ever surpass Juliet's role in his life.

Spencer had also backed off. Psych was working more private cases these days, and the SBPD didn't call on them much unless time and mayoral-attention demanded it. If Spencer had any issue with Juliet's new romantic situation, he'd made no comment, for which Carlton at least was profoundly grateful. He heard Spencer was dating a woman who owned a smoothie shop, so maybe personal distraction rather than personal growth was the reason.

From time to time Carlton looked up Ted Ridgway to see if any formal complaints had been filed against him, but he and his elderly love-bunbun must have learned discretion (or to keep the window closed). No new arrests for Manda Crockett either. He was skeptical about rehabilitation for that one. Juliet refused to let him go anywhere near the coffee shop where she worked, just in case.

"She _does_ need to eat a sandwich," Juliet remarked about her namesake in the film. "Maybe two."

"Told you."

"Still think I'm perfect?"

"Every day, in every way."

Juliet nuzzled his jaw. "Good man."

She was wearing the nightshirt he'd given her for Christmas. Emblazoned with the picture of the same desiccated mummy featured in _Love Actually_ , he'd never thought she'd actually wear it, but she loved it. It was soft and silky and looked as good on the floor next to the bed as it did on her supple warm body.

"I can't believe you love me," he whispered against her hair.

Juliet smiled up at him. "You should by now. I haven't moved out yet, have I?"

"But you don't love me enough," he said sadly, "to make apple crumble."

She rapped on his chest sharply. "No, I don't. But if I _did_ love you enough to make apple crumble, it would be the most orgasmically delicious apple crumble you ever stuffed down your stinking Irish gullet."

"Of course it would, you sweet talker. Please note that I love _you_ enough to take you shoe shopping."

"True. But that's because you're the better man."

"Also true. I could probably get that recipe from Victoria, you know."

"Uh-huh." Juliet glared at him. "You could probably pick up a host of diseases from her too but I wouldn't suggest it."

"I heard she re-re-married."

"Probably to a veneral disease specialist."

He had to laugh. "Think she got his name from Manda?"

"Manda probably slept with _her_. Are you trying to annoy me enough to get me to take you to bed?"

"We don't have to go to bed. This chair is just fine."

"You'd better pause the movie, then."

He did so instantly, and Juliet moved into his lap, hiking up her long tee to straddle him. He slid his hands under the fabric, along her warm thighs up to her hips. "You, my good woman, don't seem to be wearing any undies."

"There doesn't seem to be much point to it when I'm around you," she agreed, nibbling his jaw. "You seem to like me better without them."

"It makes up for the lack of apple crumble." He laughed when she tried to throttle him, slipping one hand between her legs to get her attention, which worked admirably.

"I'm going to kill that woman," she sighed, undulating against his fingers. "And then I'm going to kill you. And then… oh…. Oh Carlton…" Her dark blue eyes closed as she threw her head back, arching with a spasm of pleasure. "Oh…"

He made quick work of removing her tee, then returned to his task while also nuzzling her bare breast.

"Maybe I won't kill you," she amended breathlessly.

"Not today anyway," he suggested, fingers still moving.

"Not today… maybe not ever…"

Maybe not ever was as good as gold for Carlton.

Certainly it was better than an entire _bakery_ full of apple crumble cake.

 _With_ coffee.

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 **E N D**


End file.
